Can We Keep Him?
by Lampito
Summary: An incompetent Hunter wants to kill Sam; enter Dean, aka The Prankmeister, to scare him off. It works - too well.  Wearing a lacy doily on his head wasn't actually SUPPOSED to summon anything, but Sam and Bobby seem fond of it, and it adores Dean...
1. Chapter 1

**... Can We Keep Him?**

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, none of it. And I'm cool with that. Really. If I'm honest, I'm not really a Sam girl or a Dean girl… just have Bobby Singer washed and brought to my cabin, heh heh…(pauses until the shrieks of horror subside) Ahem.

SUMMARY: Not sure exactly where this might be headed right now, although I have a vague idea – sooner or later it'll have to involve dogs, though. Anyone noticing a pattern here? Well, my English teachers always said 'write about what you know', so…

Sam and Dean encounter an incompetent Hunter who wants to kill them. Even Sam's 'therapeutic interventions' can't dissuade him. With much reservation, Sam agrees to let Dean 'motivate' the would-be assassin to leave them alone – the results just go to show that Karma likes a good laugh as much as anyone else, and if you insist on being a smartarse, sooner or later it will come back to bite you on the bum. Possibly leaving teeth marks. And stains on the carpet.

Setting is some non-specific time after S4 (which is as far as we've seen Down Under – sucks to be us), when we can only hope that Sam gets his soul back, Cas gets his Dad back, and the Gruesome Twosome drive off into the sunset to go Hunting again in as close to a happy ending as you can get in the Supernatural verse… oh, and Bobby has another dog. Her name is Rumsfeld.

RATING: T, because there's bound to be language sooner or later, although I suppose you could try sewing Dean's mouth shut.

**NOTE:** Rating changed from M to T, after I've done a bit more surveying; if anyone reads the later chapters and thinks it really should be M, I'll change it back. I just don't think it contains anything that would make any 13-year-olds I know bat an eyelid. *rolls eyes* It was different When I Was That Age...

FAULT: Lies entirely with the reviewers who were so encouraging about my other stories. Yep, all their fault.

* * *

Chapter One

"Aaaaaargh!"

Dean loved his baby brother. He did, really, and always would. Since the moment he first laid eyes on the tiny, sleeping bundle held in his mother's arms, he knew it.

"Aaaaaaaaargh!"

Wild horses wouldn't drag a chick-flick-moment admission out of him except under the direst, most excruciating and emotionally fraught of circumstances, but it was true. He'd kill for his brother. He'd die for his brother. Shit, he'd done both, already.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

It's just that right now, he wanted to strangle him. Slowly. Painfully. Maybe with his own hair. Maybe with his own intestines.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!"

Preferably before Sam's latest idea sent him deaf.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!"

"That's great, Tom, that's great," encouraged Sam, smiling at the red-faced panting man sitting cross-legged opposite him, "You let it out! You have to let it go! Don't let Pain control your mind and your life! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Sam let fly with a shriek of his own that made Dean's eyes cross.

Hair like a girl. Talks like a girl. Screams like a girl.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my little sister, Samantha.

The problem, Dean decided, was that Sam was officially Too Nice. It was Compensation for Feeling Guilty about The Evil Things he'd decided he'd done.

Okay, so nobody could blame Sam for feeling a bit guilty, what with, well, everything, you know – Dean blocked out another ear-shattering burst of Primal Screaming that made his teeth wiggle, and let his mind wander, cataloguing the things for which Sam held himself responsible and deemed himself evil.

- thinking that his mother and his girlfriend were dead because of him (not his fault)

- having a less-than-healthy relationship with his father (but Dad hadn't been any better)

- seeing his brother go to Hell and believing it was all his fault (not true, but Dean could relate to that one)

- starting the Apocalypse (yep, Dean could relate to that one, too, and yeah, technically it probably counted as 'evil', if you didn't take into account the way the Amazing Flying Dicks had played them both)

- screwing Ruby and drinking her blood (probably also technically 'evil', but he could relate to the screwing bit, and Sam's heart had been in the right place even if his dick hadn't)

- scribbling all over Dean's new comic with a blue crayon when he was three years old (kind of evil, since new comics had been a rarity)

- putting holes in Dean's one pair of decent winter socks to make puppets when he was four (yeah, pretty evil, he hadn't had new socks for two months)

- eating the last piece of pumpkin pie at Bobby's place after Thanksgiving when he was five (okay, that had been the moment when Dean had known for sure that Sam would go straight to Hell when he died)…

Yep, Sam probably had his fair share of things to be guilty about, and God knows he beat himself up over it endlessly.

But that didn't excuse him for wanting to handle a complete douchebag like Tom Henderson with kid gloves.

Said complete douchebag was a youngish, scrawnyish Hunter with an unfortunate case of lingering acne, who looked more like he'd been thrown out of Accountancy for being too much of a wimp. Being youngish and scrawnyish didn't automatically qualify a guy for douchebagdom – what automatically qualified him for Level One Douchebagdom on the Dean Index was the fact that he wanted to kill Sam.

As if that wasn't enough to set Dean's hackles up, all Sam wanted to do was _talk_ to him. Politely and reasonably. That sort of attitude just wasn't _natural_. It wasn't _healthy_. And Sam wouldn't let Dean beat the crap out of him, not even a little bit. It was just… vexing. Terribly, terribly vexing.

He suddenly felt two pairs of eyes boring into him.

"Dean," said Sam reprovingly, "I thought we'd agreed on this - you aren't helping Tom if you won't take him seriously."

Dean bit back the squawk of outrage – it was like being asked to take someone seriously after they'd jumped into a swimming pool, then decided to sue somebody because nobody told them specifically that they'd get wet – but when he saw the bitchface brewing on his brother's face, he decided to let it out after all. Hell, it might actually make him feel better, you never knew.

"YAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!" he howled, until he was sure his tonsils were on the point of rupture along with his eardrums.

Tom Henderson looked out of breath, and slightly shell-shocked. Sam relaxed, and looked decidedly pleased. "Well, I think that went really well," he announced, smiling, "And I hope you found it helpful, Tom. Thank you, Dean, for participating, and helping Tom."

"Yeah, that was, um, great, Sam," said Tom hesitantly. He shared a brief glance with Dean. It was a glance shared across Christmas Lunch tables around the world every year, between relatives and work colleagues who loathed each other, when a particularly drunk and incomprehensible uncle or boss rose to speak. It said, "I despise you, and all that you are and do, and would cheerfully slit your throat with a rusty razor blade, in fact I'd pay for the privilege, but right here and right now, I acknowledge that we are both trapped in the presence of true insanity."

"Well then," said Sam cheerfully as they all stood, "I guess we can all be on our way, now, in mutual respect?" Tom and Dean nodded warily. "Great! Well, goodbye, Tom," he stuck out a hand, which Tom took and shook carefully, as if expecting Sam to explode, "Stay safe." Tom left without a backward glance.

Sam sighed with satisfaction. "You know, I think that might really have done the trick, this time," he said.

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, now all we have to do is find an ENT surgeon who can repair my eardrums…"

Sam pulled a Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk). "And you call me a drama queen."

"I'm not kidding! My ears are ringing!" complained Dean. "Primal scream therapy, Sam? Was that really necessary?"

"A lot of people find it helpful," countered Sam, "And Tom clearly has a lot of resentment, and anger, and hurt that he needs to work through…"

"Can't he work through it quietly? Why won't you just let me beat it out of him?" whined Dean, like a six-year-old being denied a favorite toy.

"That attitude really isn't constructive," tutted Sam, "Rather than resorting to violence, if we can find out what's motivating Tom, and help him deal with it…"

"Stupidity, Oprah," said Dean in frustration, "Tom Henderson is motivated by overwhelming stupidity! For crying out loud, this is a guy who took sugar to a salt and burn by mistake! He made toffee! If the ghost hadn't been a diabetic in life, he'd have been ganked on the spot! He got holy water mixed up with Sprite! And as for what happened when someone told him you need to do a head job to stop a zombie... Stupid is his middle name! If you cut him into slices, the word 'Stupid' would be written on him all the way through! If you look up 'stupid' in the dictionary, there's a picture of him…"

Sam looked hurt. "I'm just trying to deal with him without anybody getting hurt, Dean. I thought you understood that."

"Sam," growled Dean, "Sam, that guy keeps trying to kill you. He. Wants. To. Kill. You. Which bit of 'he wants to kill you' do you not understand?"

"But he hasn't," answered Sam, infuriatingly calm, "And really, I think now he might stop trying." Dean let out a non-specific grumble of disbelief, but decided to let it go. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe that dope had got the message.

At the very least, hopefully he'd at least develop the smarts to stay the hell out of the way of any more potential 'therapeutic interventions' from Sam. Dean wasn't sure he could cope with too much more of Sam's compassion. Not without a blood vessel bursting or a rash breaking out somewhere.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: no snakes were harmed in the writing of this chapter, although a couple of innocent chocolate bars were brutally eaten alive._

* * *

Chapter Two

Dean didn't mind so much that Tom had tried to kill him (yeah yeah, get in line, bozo), but he _did _mind that he'd tried to kill Sam (Big Brother-Pitbull Mode: activated!).

However, what he really, _really_ minded was that the guy was a complete, total, incompetent, utterly irritating dick.

Supposedly a Hunter, (and that was stretching the definition a long way, because usually the working definition of a Hunter as stupid as Henderson was 'corpse'), he'd got wind of the Winchesters' input to starting the Apocalypse. He didn't seem so interested in the fact that they'd stopped it, and had taken it into his head that he was going to do humankind a favor and gank Sam the Abomination, Sam the Demonblood-Drinker, Sam the Devil Reincarnate, Sam the Vessel Of Lucifer, Sam the Next King Of Hell, Sam the Anti-Messiah, Sam the User Of All The Hot Water, Bitch. (Okay, Dean had added that last one. It was the most true out of the entire list, though, and incidentally, hardest for Dean to forgive.)

Being stalked and attacked (for a given value of 'attacked'), unsuccessfully, by a man who was clearly depriving a village somewhere of its idiot was, well, _embarrassing_. It was like being attacked by a Brownie (the sort with beret and pigtails, not the sort with wings): there was a sense that dealing with something so petty was somehow beneath a Hunter, and slapping anything so basically harmless would just be… mean.

Beating the crap out of this idiot wouldn't count as mean, by Dean's reckoning. At the very worst, it would be classified as 'vermin control', but… Sam didn't want to be mean. Sam was being Nice. Compensating. And it was driving Dean nuts.

The first time they encountered him, he came screaming at them from a block away, waving a knife, shouting "Die, Winchester!" Sam and Dean had been getting into the Impala. They stood watching, in confusion, as Tom ran the length of the block, screaming, arriving red-faced and puffing badly. They had to offer him a bottle of water and wait a few minutes for him to get his breath back and explain why he wanted to kill Sam. Dean wanted to throttle him on the spot, of course, but Sam had looked like he was going to burst into tears, then he took the knife from Henderson's hand, and ushered him into a nearby coffee shop, insisting that Dean stay with the car. Dean was not happy about that, but Sam turned on the kicked puppy eyes (he might not do 'mean', but he was perfectly happy to do 'emotional blackmail' when it suited him).

Dean watched from outside as they had an animated conversation – well, in fact, Sam talked at Tom, who cowered further into his seat as time went on – so that by the time they emerged, Sam was smiling and Tom looked… bewildered. Dean could understand that: when Sam cornered you and decided it was time to Talk About Our Feelings, it could be a pretty traumatic experience.

"That went really well," said Sam, as they watched Tom wander away, looking slightly dazed, "I just had to explain a few things to him."

"Yeah, I hope you explained that if he ever tries that again, I'll kill him," growled Dean.

It turned out that Tom was as persistent as he was stupid: his next try consisted of trying to disable the Impala's brakes. It also turned out that he couldn't tell a brake line from a fuel line, so he ended up with a faceful of gasoline. Worse for him, Dean caught him in the act, and only Sam's timely intervention stopped Dean from disembowelling Tom with a plastic spoon on the spot. Instead, Sam insisted that they all sit down over coffee and pie, and calmly Discuss Their Differences Like Rational Adults.

"It's very important that you make 'I' statements," said Sam firmly, looking from Dean to Tom and back again, like a teacher addressing students in detention, "Rather than accusatory 'You' statements. For example, if I was annoyed at Dean for using up all the hot water, I would say, "Dean, when you use all the hot water, I feel hurt and disappointed – in future, I would prefer that you leave some hot water for me". Got it?" They both glowered at him. "Dean, you go first."

"Sam, are you nuts?" asked Dean. "This sonofabitch wants to kill you, and do it by messing with my baby, for that alone he deserves to die…"

"Dean," wheedled Sam, "Make that an 'I' statement."

"You know what, Dr Phil, you can stick your 'I' up your mutual respect and…"

"Dean!" The puppy eyes were replaced by Bitchface #9™.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Tom," he said through clenched teeth, "When you tried to damage my car, I felt angry and hurt…"

"That's great, Dean," encouraged Sam, as Dean continued,

"…And in future, I would prefer that you leave us AND my car alone, or I will tear your fucking head off and shit down your neck, you asshole…"

Tom's attempt wasn't much better: "When you started the Apocalypse, I felt scared and confused about what was happening…"

"Well done, Tom," smiled Sam, "And…?"

"And in future, I would prefer that you were dead, and preferably your girly-man pitbull of a big brother too…"

It was only the over-riding power of The Bitchface and threats to take the pie away that stopped Tom and Dean making 'You' statements of the 'What I Would Like To Throw Through The Window' type. Sam would not be denied his Civilized Discussion, though; in the end, he wore them down through sheer determination, ruthless bitchfacing and hunger.

Dean started to wonder if he should write his own self-help book (maybe he could call it "The Idiots Will Inherit The Earth, So Lets All Go To Mars Or Venus") when Tom decided to have another go at ridding the world of the abominable Sasquatch. This time, he had lain in wait in a dumpster in the lot where they parked outside a diner. Unfortunately for him, the garbage truck had come along to empty it just before the Winchesters finished their dinner – it was sheer luck that Sam heard the screams for help, while Dean put his hands over his ears and chanted "La la la la I can't hear you I can't hear you…" that led to the Primal Screaming episode. Surely even the dumbest, most incompetent would-be assassin would have got the message?

But no! Tom was like an Energizer Bunny running on a turbo-charged idiocy. He had apparently discovered incompetent persistence as a renewable energy source. Why has science not developed this man into a solution for the problem of rising oil prices? wondered Dean, when they found him twitching on the floor of their crappy motel room – the venomous 'coral snake' he'd procured and intended to leave in Sam's bed had turned out to be a harmless kingsnake, which had slithered up his trousers and taken up residence in his underwear, where it curled up and contentedly went to sleep.

The look of utter disappointment on Sam's face as he assisted Tom to remove the snake, and saw to it that both Tom and snake were gently released back into the environment, was enough to make Dean want to kill Henderson even more. _In fact_, he decided, _once he's dead, I'm going to prop him against a tree and throw rocks at him…_

"I don't understand," said Sam softly, looking completely crestfallen, "I just wanted to sort this out like human beings, talk to each other and work out our differences."

… _big heavy rocks, with sharp pointy sticky-out bits_…

"Sam. some people are just too thick-headed to know when to quit," sighed Dean.

"I don't know what else to try," continued Sam miserably, "He just doesn't seem to be interested in talking about why he wants to kill me."

"We've tried it your way, Sam," commiserated Dean, "But we can't let him go on doing this – at the very least, he's a total pain in the ass, and at worst, if the asshole gets lucky, one or both of us is going to end up dead." A look of determination crossed his face. "Now, we deal with this my way."

"No, Dean," stated Sam, "Absolutely not, he may be an idiot, but he's a human idiot, you cannot, CANNOT gank him, or beat him to a pulp…"

"I'm not going to lay a hand on him," Dean reassured him, "Well, hardly. I'm not going to hurt him. I'm just going to… motivate him to stay away from you. From us." He smiled winningly.

Sam frowned suspiciously. "Dean, what are you going to do?"

"I'll do what I do best, after Hunting," answered Dean, smiling even more broadly, "You just stand back, Sammy, and watch as the Prankmeister demonstrates his awesomeness."

* * *

PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING: Medical authorities warn that reviews cause further updates.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sam was not happy about this, not happy at all, despite Dean's promise that he wouldn't hurt Tom. His brother was right, they had to do something, if only for the welfare of local wildlife, but he still wasn't happy. Dean had set out his props, briefed Sam on his part, then left. So Sam was lurking in the shadows behind a rotting plywood wall in a derelict warehouse, .wav file cued on the laptop, being not happy at all.

He heard them long before he saw them; a serious of bangs, crashes and cusswords heralded the arrival of Dean in the dingy warehouse backroom, dragging a slightly ruffled-looking Tom Henderson with him. Sam watched through a crack in the peeling laminate as Dean dragged him across the greasy floor and handcuffed him to a corroding downpipe.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" tut-tutted Dean, moving to the mouldy packing crate where he'd deposited the items required for this evening's prank. He picked up a wicked-looking knife, which Sam recognised as actually being a bread-knife from Bobby's kitchen, but Henderson was so terrified he didn't seem to notice.

"Jesus, man," he stuttered, eyeing the knife as Dean approached him, "I'm sorry, dude, just don't, don't, just don't kill me…"

"Kill you?" Dean asked in an incredulous tone. "Kill you? Tom, Tom, relax! I have no intention of killing you. I don't want you dead. I just want you gone." Dean had his back to Sam's hiding place, but Sam just knew that Dean was smiling broadly. _Jerk is enjoying this,_ he thought to himself.

The knife suddenly flashed, and Henderson shrieked, but was silent again when he realised that all Dean had done was to cut a small piece from his shirt. "What… what's that for?" he asked in a quavering voice.

"I just need something to give it your scent," explained Dean matter-of-factly, taking a piece of chalk and drawing on the dirty floor. "Ooooh, yuck, I don't want to think about what I'm kneeling in here, this place is filthy. I just put these jeans on clean today, too, damn…"

"Scent? What needs my scent?" asked Henderson anxiously, but Dean was concentrating on his drawing. Satisfied, he stood, and went back to the packing case.

Dean picked up a heavy, antique book with yellowed pages. It certainly looked impressively ancient and occult, even if was only an 18th century textbook on algebra (Sam had found it useful on a number of occasions during his schooling). Dean found his place – the intricate-looking bookmark was actually a sugar bowl doily that one of Bobby's neighbours had crocheted for him one Christmas.

With great solemnity, like a Knight Templar donning his helm for battle, Dean placed the lacy doily on his head.

He picked up the book, and 'consulted' it. "Whelp of the Pit," he began, a grimly satisfied smirk on his face, "I call you to my hunt, I call you to my pack, I call you to my prey." The little glass beads on the doily bobbed as he read. "Whelp of the Pit, I call you to my hunt, I call you to my pack, I call you to my prey…"

"Wh-what are you doing?" quavered Henderson, but Dean kept 'reading'. As instructed, Sam hit 'play' in the laptop. A brief low-volume burst of growling and barking, provided by Rumsfeld, sounded from the speakers. (It was actually a very excited play-bark, elicited during a wrestling match with Dean, but Rumsfeld was a big girl, and she sounded scary even when she was trying to get her fluffy purple hippo back.) He left the laptop to play, and quietly made his way out of the room through the damaged wall behind him, heading back around to the door Dean and Henderson had used.

Dean took up his bread-knife again, and waggled his doily threateningly. He switched to Latin.

"Canis meus bonum est, autem te necet lingendo. Sede! Volve! Ecce, Latine scit."

Another burst of Rumsfeld's barking played, a bit louder this time. Henderson darted an anxious look around.

"What was that noise?" he asked, becoming frantic.

A third Rumsfeld soundbite, louder again, played.

"Canis obliviscaris, cave mulierem!" finished Dean with a flourish of the knife and a waggle of the doily.

That was Sam's cue – he burst through the door, looking around wildly at the scene before him. "Dean, what the hell are you doing?" he shouted, as Dean gave him a self-satisfied smirk.

"Nothing much, Sam, really," he grinned, taking a key from his pocket and releasing Henderson, "Just giving our friend here a little bit of motivation to stay away from us."

"What did you do?" asked Henderson, looking from Dean to Sam. "What did he do? He was saying stuff, then there was stuff in Latin…"

Sam made a show of reading the book Dean had used – it happened to be open on an example of factorizing a quadratic equation – and looking back at Dean in horror. "You didn't," he breathed.

"I did," said Dean, grinning.

"What did he do, Sam?" pleaded Henderson, "What did he do?"

"A hellhound," answered Sam, his voice coldly angry, "He's summoned a hellhound." He pointed at the piece of Henderson's shirt resting on the floor in the middle of what was, if you looked at it sideways, a pretty good chalk rendition of Motorhead's 'Snaggletooth' mascot. "He's summoned a hellhound, and given it your scent." He glared at Dean. "I don't believe you've done this…"

Another burst of Rumsfeld's barking sounded, distinctly louder again.

"What do I do?" shrieked Henderson, his eyes wild.

"Run," answered Dean smugly, "And keep running."

"Come on," said Sam grimly, grabbing Henderson's arm and dragging him out of the warehouse.

Tom was panting in fear. "How do I stop it?" he asked desperately, "Can you stop it?"

"No," said Sam, "I can't stop it. Once a hellhound is summoned and set to a hunt, it can't be stopped."

Tom looked around in terror. "It's gonna kill me," he moaned disbelievingly, "It's gonna kill me, it's gonna kill me, it's gonna kill meeeeeeeeeee!"

"Calm down!" said Sam, "It's not going to kill you!"

"…It's gonna kill meeeee… huh?" Henderson stared at him, confused.

"Look," explained Sam, "Can I be honest with you? Dean's not that good at this sort of thing. Brute force is more his… idiom. Subtle and precise spell-casting is not. The pitbull brother, remember?" Sam smiled sympathetically then cocked his head and frowned, giving a distinct impression of doing a mental calculation. "I can see what he was trying to do, but he screwed up. It won't track you to the ends of the Earth – it will only find you if you're hanging around us. Right now, it's casting for your scent. It'll take it some time to find you, but if you stay away from us, say, about five miles – make it ten to be safe – it won't be able to find you. It'll lose the trail."

"S-so, if I stay away from you guys, I'm safe?" asked Henderson in a quivering voice, eyes darting around again.

"Definitely. If you stay out of range, it'll never find you." Sam looked at his watch. "If you get going now, you can be well out of range by the time it picks up your trail here."

"Okay." Tom breathed out. He looked up at Sam, his face contrite. "I'm sorry I tried to kill you," he said, "And you bein' so… decent about it. This is very good of you." He stuck out a hand.

Sam smiled and shook it. "Hey, Hunters are all supposed to be on the same side, remember?"

"Right. Well, see you round. Um, not, that is, not see you, ever again," said Tom, starting to gibber again.

From inside the warehouse, a deep, rumbling bark echoed around the crumbling walls.

Tom let out a little shriek, and took to his heels. Sam watched him go.

When Tom was out of sight, Dean wandered out of the warehouse, carrying his props, and the laptop. "I can't turn this stupid thing off," he said, "It just keeps playing the Rumsfeld Rap on loop."

"Give it here," said Sam, rolling his eyes and shutting it off. He eyed his brother disapprovingly. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?" he continued, accusingly.

"Actually, I did," said Dean cheerfully, waggling eyebrows and doily at Sam. Sam snatched the doily from his head.

"What the hell was that all about? 'My dog is a good dog, but he might lick you to death? Sit, roll over? Look, he understands Latin.'?" queried Sam.

"Well, I had to make it sound convincing, and Latin sounds about as occult as you can get, dude…"

" 'Forget the dog, beware of the wife'?"

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" countered Dean, "What did I tell you – leave it to the Prankmeister! He's gone, and he won't be back..."

"I haven't decided whether you looked like a 1920s flapper bride, or an Amish cross-dresser," grumbled Sam.

"…Which means, there will not be any more Talking About Our Feelings, Making 'I' Statements or recognizing that Hunters Are From Mars And Tom Is From Planet Dick required." Dean paused. "I want my doily back."

"No."

"You're jealous. You didn't immediately think of Princess Arwen? Liv Tyler was hot. Pointy ears. Aragorn can fuck right off, I look better in stubble than him. And better in a doily than Orlando Bloom."

"That really frightened him, you know," said Sam.

"That was the general idea. Not quite as satisfying as beating the crap out of him, but you can make it up to me by buying me pie, bitch."

"Sometimes, Dean, I worry about you and your pathological need to hit things."

"Only things that try to gank us first, Sammy."

"Tom would never have done any harm, he was too incompetent."

"I could've stopped him earlier if you'd just let me beat him up."

"Don't be so childish."

"Why wouldn't you let me beat him uuuuuuup, Sammy?" whined Dean, "You never let me beat the bad guys uuuuuuup!"

"Jesus, Dean, how old are you?"

"It's not faaaaaaaaaaaair, you're so meeeeeeeeeeeean…"

"Knock it off, jerk."

"Bitch. Meanie meanie bitch."

The Winchesters' bickering faded as they left the crumbling warehouse behind and headed back to the Impala. Then there was silence.

Silence.

_Silence. Cold. Cold silence. Disorientation. Confusion._

_Summons. Summons._

_Cold…. scent? Scent?_

_Here! Tiny piece, tiny piece… Here! Scent! Track!_

_Casting, searching… scent! Track!_

_Purpose. Summons._

Heavy footfalls tracked away from the warehouse; then silence once more.

* * *

I don't know where the doily came from - but then again, I'd also like to see Bobby try on a tea-cosy sometime. (On his head, you disgusting things…) The Latin was inspired by Henry Beard's 'Latin For All Occasions' books. They're hilarious. If I've stuffed up any of the conjugations or declensions, though, the _culpa_ is all _mea_.

Could probably have let this end here, but, well, it's just too hard to resist a Karmic bum-biting. Will try to update when work calms down a bit, and the inspirational Chocolate Fairy strikes next. And honestly, I'd like to see the doily in action again. Vote with your keyboards people - hands up if you want to see Dean wearing the doily again? (NB: if anybody votes for seeing Dean wearing a doily and nothing else, I will invent a bitchface of my own, you lecherous individuals...)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Deeeean!" came the outraged call from the bathroom, "I'm running out of hot water, jerk!"

Dean shut his phone. "Serves you right for having so much hair," he yelled back, "So much hair needing so much washing and conditioning and God knows what else that you get up to in there…"

"You used it all!"

"You'd complain worse if I stayed stinking of whatever was on the floor of that warehouse," replied Dean, "Look, just don't bother with shaving your legs tonight, okay?"

"I've asked you before…"

"If the cold water is giving you shrinkage problems, you'll just have to find somewhere else to jerk off, bro."

"Jerk!"

"Exactly." Dean was sure he could hear the bitchface through the bathroom door. He checked the salt lines, then turned back to the TV, grinning, and shoved another corn chip into his mouth.

"Were you on the phone?" asked Sam when he emerged later, still scowling at Dean.

"Yeah, it was Bobby. He thinks he has a job for us," replied Dean. "Oh, and he wants his bread-knife back. I can keep the doily, though, he says he has lots. Who knew? Never thought of Bobby as a doily collector. We'll head out first thing tomorrow. So put your hot rollers in tonight, you won't have time to mess with the curling iron in the morning… OW!" A hairbrush sailed across the room and thwacked into the side of Dean's head.

Dean snatched it up, sprinted into the bathroom, and dropped it into the toilet.

After a brief scuffle, Dean's razor followed it.

Senseless cruelty to helpless cushions and innocent corn chips ensued.

Dean speculated out loud about Sam possibly having an erotic fascination for domestic animals. He added quite a convincing sheep noise, for good measure.

Sam suggested that Dean could perform a vulgar activity upon himself, although it might reasonably be expected to take training in a vigorous style of yoga to attain the required flexibility.

Dean boasted that he could probably actually do that if he really wanted to.

Sam professed a profound conviction that Dean already did it on a regular basis anyway.

Dean accused Sam of jealousy.

Sam opined that it might be a good idea for Dean to go out and work off some energy, perhaps by copulating with the Impala. He even made some helpful suggestions about what weight motor oil would be appropriate lubrication, and tossed a cushion to Dean with a sincere wish that his big brother not hurt his knees on the gravel lot. He added a helpfully demonstrative hand gesture.

Dean launched the cushion back at Sam, and followed it with himself – apparently, dragging his car into their bickering was crossing the line.

"You perverted little… oof!" Mid-leap he connected with something solid-ish, and went down in a heap.

"Pfah!" he said, spitting out a mouthful of trench coat. He looked down to find that he was sprawled on top of Castiel, who lay gazing serenely at him.

Dean scrambled to his feet. "Dude, personal space!" he yelled, out of habit.

"My apologies, Dean," said the angel, "But in my own defence, may I point out that I was standing several feet away from you, and it was you who in fact travelled into my personal space. However, I am not offended by this, so there is no need for you to apologize."

"Yeah, well, that was Sam's fault." grumbled Dean, indicating the offending cushion.

"Your brother is merely concerned for your welfare," pointed out Castiel, "And does not want you to hurt yourself. I think you might be grateful that he passes no judgement on your personal choices – in many instances, an individual wishing to act upon erotic urges towards an inanimate object can expect rejection and criticism from family, not the sort of unthinking acceptance and consideration that you have received from Sam, although might I suggest that engine oil would not be best for the purpose, a water-based personal lubricant would be more appropriate, and…"

"Cas, I am NOT going to have sex with my car!" yelled Dean.

Castiel looked confused. "Then why were you thinking about it?"

"Because my idiot little brother is a pervert, that's why," scowled Dean, glaring at his brother, "You EVER insult my baby like that again, Samantha, and I'm warning you…" He stopped and blinked. "Hey!" he squawked indignantly, "What are you doing reading my thoughts anyway? Remember those conversations about 'private thoughts' we had?"

"Yes, Dean," confirmed Castiel, his face serious, "Although they were not so much conversations as lectures from you on the importance of not intruding on a man's 'Special Me-Time'…"

"Right," said Dean, "So stay out of my head."

"It was difficult, since you were thinking about it very hard," explained Castiel, "The equivalent of mentally shouting about it – and while I can appreciate the aesthetic qualities of the car's design, and I can agree that the roofline does indeed slope into the decklid like the curve of a woman's hip…"

"Cas..." Dean's voice was a warning growl.

"I am not here to judge you, Dean – you are an adult, and what you do in Special Me-Time is your own business. Mechanophilia is a surprisingly common fetish, and provided it does not occur in a public place, which would be illegal, and it doesn't hurt anyone else, it is not necessarily…"

"CAS!" Dean shouted. "Stop smirking, Samantha!" he added.

"I'm not smirking, I'm laughing out loud." Sam squelched his laughter. "Why are you here, Cas?" he asked, changing the subject, grinning at his glowering brother.

"I need your help," said the angel seriously. "In the past fortnight, in your time, there have been several instances of demons trying to sneak into Heaven." Both Winchesters were instantly serious as Castiel continued. "On three occasions, they were successful. We located them quickly and dispatched them, but we cannot ascertain how they managed to gain entrance. These are low-hierarchy demons so far, but if some way to get into Heaven exists, it may be exploited by a greater number, or a more powerful entity, or both. This cannot be allowed."

"What do you know?" asked Dean, surveying the damage done to the corn chips in the preceding scuffle.

"We believe that the demons are gaining access to Heaven via the Earthly realm; there may be some artefact they have discovered. Whatever it is, we cannot see it, or sense it."

"That's not a lot for us to go on," said Sam, "And Bobby has a job for us…"

"But we'll see what we can turn up," added Dean, "Leave us what you know, and we'll contact you if we find or hear anything."

"Very well. Thank you." Castiel cocked his head and directed a compassionate look at Dean. "Dean, I believe that my Father just wants all of his children to be happy, and even in the Bible, which is the flawed work of Man, there is nothing to suggest that it is in any way sinful to…"

"Goodbye, Cas!" trilled Dean brightly between clenched teeth. There was a flap of wings and trench-coat, and Castiel was gone.

"Don't say it," warned Dean, glowering at Sam, as he picked up his toothbrush and pointed it menacingly at his grinning brother, then headed for the bathroom, "Do – not – say – a – word."

Sam counted to twenty, then shouted "Vroom vroom!... OW!" A toothbrush, still daubed with toothpaste, sailed across the room and thwacked into the side of his head.

Sam snatched it up, sprinted into the bathroom, and dropped it into the toilet.

After a brief scuffle, Sam's shampoo followed it.

Senseless cruelty to helpless cushions resumed.

Which is probably why the Winchesters didn't hear any noise outside their room.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

_Summons, summons. Track, track… scent!_

_Confusion… salt! Salt! Scent, but… salt!_

_Cold. Alien, unfamiliar cold… track, track… _

_Metal. Scent. Strong scent, on the metal. In the metal._

_Warmer. Strong scent. Close, away from salt. _

Physical form would be required to answer this summons, but that could wait – the Alpha would return to this place. The strength of the scent was testament to that.

_Warmer. Rest…_

_

* * *

_A friend just hung over my shoulder to read: she said, "I'd watch that, IF he had the doily on his head." Clearly, I need to go out and buy some new friends; the ones I have a sick, sick individuals...

Four more big sleeps and I'm on Christmas leave, yahoo! Will try to update again before then, but the chocolate has run out. Did you know that every time you include the word 'chocolate' in a review, an Update Inspiration Fairy gets its wings. Fair Dinkum.


	5. Chapter 5

*flap flap* Hear that? *flap flap* It's the sound of the Chocolate-Launched Update Inspiration Fairy, thanks to Twinchester Angel's magnificent effort - 6 uses of the word 'chocolate' in the one review. Huzzah! Since somebody else made an effort, I really should do the same; onwards with the silliness...

* * *

Chapter Five

The Winchesters' departure was delayed the next morning, while Sam poured more disinfectant over his hairbrush and Dean put his razor back into the electric kettle for another boiling. This caused a certain laxity in personal grooming.

"You look like that Bill Kaulitz dude, only girlier, bitch."

"You look like a homeless wino, only untidier, jerk."

The sun was up as they slung their duffels into the trunk, and headed off for Bobby's yard.

"Chicks dig stubble, Sam."

"Do they dig toilet breath? Because I dunked your toothbrush again when you weren't looking…"

Dean drew breath to launch a stream of expletives at his brother when he caught sight of a pair of red eyes in the rear view mirror.

"What the…" his foot hit the brake, and the car skidded to a halt off the side of the road.

"Dean, what the hell…" Sam watched as his brother sat, opened mouthed, staring in horror at the mirror.

"Hee… hee… hee… " he wheezed asthmatically. Sam turned to see what he was looking at, and…

It was like watching a can of space-filling foam being discharged, except it wasn't space-filling foam – a shape, an enormous shape, was suddenly taking form and expanding to fill the entire back seat of the Impala. Like the scene in 'Alien Resurrection', thought Sam, where the Ripley-Alien hybrid was sucked out into space through a hole in a spacecraft, only running backwards. And the thing being unsucked and taking shape was not a brain-eating gut-bursting species-wiping-outing planet-taking-overing alien. It was much more unattractive than that.

"HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" gasped Dean, finally getting control of his motor functions again – in a single bound, he had the door open and was ten feet away from the car. Sam followed suit, grabbing the empty corn chips bag on the way.

"Dean? Dean!" he barked, trying to get his brother's attention. They watched as the thing continued to expand, until it was pressed up against the rear windows. It looked like somebody had tried to inflate a hot-air balloon made of rotting sheepskin in the back of the car.

"Dean, you're hyperventilating," said Sam, one eye still on the car as he shoved the corn chips bag at his brother, "Breathe into this, bro." Dean did as he was told, his eyes still bugging out of his head, until he was able to get out a single word:

"Hee… hee… hellhound," he managed, before he returned to panting into his corn chip bag.

"What? Dean, it can't be a hellhound." Sam tried logic, always a long shot with Dean, but… "Hellhounds are invisible. Humans can't see them. Besides, a hellhound couldn't fit into the car…"

Dean was at the trunk, rummaging through the weapons, still clutching his corn chip bag for security. "It's a hellhound, Sam," he gasped, grabbing a shotgun and scrabbling for iron shot, "I know what a hellhound looks like, okay? I had forty years to learn! I am an expert on hellhound identification! I can look at any hellhound and say with total authority, yep, that's a hellhound! I am a card-carrying member of the Hellhound Identification Club!" His voice was rising in shrillness, although his hands were steady. "If anyone bred prize hellhounds, I could judge them! I could wear a hat with a badge on it saying 'Judge', and hold a clipboard, and watch them run around the ring…"

"Dean…"

"…and say things like "Bodega Hiphiphooray has very good conformation, but did not tear his handler to pieces with the required enthusiasm" and "Dunedin Gorgeous Girl retrieved the damned soul in record time, but she lost points for not mauling any spectators" and "Tallyho Pretty Princess produced a promising litter, they're weaned onto minced human entrails with their puppy milk already, precocious little darlings…"

"Dean, you're gibbering…"

"…I could tell the good ones from the bad ones, the champions from the also-rans, I could give out rosettes…"

"Just breathe into the bag, Dean…"

"…and present Best In Show to the one that ate all the competition and shake hands with the next-of-kin of the winner's owner and it can just GET OUT OF MY CAR YOU FUCKING MONSTER!"

He hefted the gun and prepared to shoot at the space-filling foam shape in the Impala, but on his last phrase, it sort of… _extruded_ was the word that came to Sam's mind, it _extruded _out of the car, and rematerialized on the side of the road.

It was more grotesque, more horrible, more demonically terrifying than any occult text account Sam had ever consulted, and in the countdown to Dean's deal coming due, he'd consulted a lot.

It was beyond ugly – larger than an Irish Wolfhound, the size of a pony, built like a Mastiff on steroids, covered in filthy, matted fur, with eyes that glowed like banked coals. Its head looked misshapen, as if it had been carved out of granite then heated, melted and recongealed in some infernal kiln. A muzzle at least eighteen inches long was full of teeth like boning knives. Small wisps of sulphurous vapour trailed from its nostrils…

As it sat on the side of the road, watching them expectantly.

"Why… why can we see it?" asked Sam, half talking to himself. "Why isn't it attacking us?"

"Like I care," muttered Dean, re-aiming.

The hellhound cocked its head at him.

"Wait!" yelled Sam, not taking his eyes off the awful thing looking at them, but Dean cut him off.

"Sam, this is NOT the time for your 'Don't hurt him, he's not doing any harm' crap!"

"Dean, wait a minute…"

"No! Arnold Schwartzendogger here is about to go right back to Hell! You don't like it, well, go cry, emo kid…"

"You'll hit the car," Sam pointed out.

"Since when do you care?" asked Dean, his voice rising again. "Why are we having this conversation? _Stop being so calm and reasonable!_ I can repair the car! It's not like I can say "Hey, fella, go sit in the middle of the road where the chunks of caustic carrion that I blast off your scaly hide won't damage the paintwork', my baby will forgive me and…" his voice trailed off as the giant beast stood, turned, and trotted away from the car, to sit in the middle of the road, watching them.

Dean blinked. "Um," he said.

The grotesque thing lifted a hind leg, and scratched an ear. It sounded like blunt nails scraping down industrial grade sandpaper.

Sam looked intrigued. "Dean," he said carefully, "Tell it to lie down."

"What?" Dean shrieked at his brother incredulously.

"Just, just do it, okay?" continued Sam, "Think of it as an experiment."

Coming perilously close to pulling a bitchface, Dean faced the thing and said, "Hey, Fido, lie down!"

The hellhound dropped to the road.

"Holy shit," breathed Sam. "Holy shit… Dean, do you know what this means?"

"Yeah, I gotta aim lower, and I don't have to damage my baby," snarled Dean.

He was suddenly cut off by a blast of four-note air horn whonking an urgent accompaniment to the sound of locking wheels; a semi-trailer was approaching from the other direction. The driver hit the brakes when he rounded the turn and saw a large animal in the middle of the road.

The rig hit the hellhound, the tractor pirouetting around the coupling, bull bar crumpling, to slam against the trailer as the whole thing slid, in a tortured screeching of protesting smoking tyres, finally coming to rest skewed across the road.

The hellhound stood, shook itself, and looked in confusion at the truck.

The driver was not happy. He climbed down from his jack-knifed truck, inspected the damage briefly, then came stomping back up the road towards the Winchesters.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he roared, pointing an accusing finger at them, "Letting your damned dog run loose on the damned highway?"

"My… what?" said Dean, looking from the trucker to the hound.

The hound sniffed at the rear wheel set of the trailer, and cocked its leg. The wheel hub began to dissolve.

"Er, Dean," said Sam, "I think we may have a… situation here…"

"Damned right you've got a situation!" yelled the irate driver, "Look at my rig! I'm gonna cut that mangy animal's throat!"

"I think I can handle one angry fat trucker, Sam," sighed Dean, but Sam shook his head.

"He can see it, bro!" Sam hissed, "It's not just us, _he can see it too!_ And look…" He pointed at the hellhound.

It was moving, placing itself between the Winchesters and Angry Fat Trucker, hackles raised along its huge body, growling. The growl arrived up through the ground via their boots, rather than their ears.

"You'd better have your goddamn insurance in order, pal, or I'll do the same to you, asshole…" the trucker's voice dwindled as he got close enough to see that the size of the animal was not any effect of perspective.

As the last threat left his mouth, the hound let out a snarl like an angry chainsaw, and leapt towards him.

"NO!" shouted Sam and Dean in unison.

The creature twisted in midair, somehow turning and avoiding the trucker who had frozen in place. It landed, and sat again, looking back towards the Winchesters.

It made a noise like a badly-lubricated hydroelectric turbine throwing a giant bearing.

It was whining.

"I'm calling the cops," said the trucker, his voice trembling, stumbling back in the direction of his truck, "You got no right to set a dog like that on a man, damned thing should be put down…"

"What? _What? _I didn't set it on anybody!" yelled Dean. "It's not my dog! It's just… following me!"

"Dean," said Sam, grabbing his brother's arm, "Let's just get out of here. Now."

"Amen to that," agreed Dean, getting back to the Impala. They sped off in the opposite direction.

When Dean looked up to the mirror, the hellspawn space-packing foam was blocking his view.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" he shrieked. "Not you! GET OUT OF MY CAR!"

The back seat was suddenly empty.

"Er, Dean," began Sam, nodding towards the driver side window. Dean did a double take.

The hound was loping alongside the car in long, easy strides, up the wrong side of the road.

"Fuck this," muttered Dean, putting his foot down. The Impala increased speed. So did the hellhound.

"Traffic!" shouted Sam, as another car approached from the opposite direction. There was a honking of horn, a brief flash of horrified faces in a windscreen, some creative cussing and decidedly unmanly screaming from inside the Impala, then the hound leapt effortlessly, clearing the car with several feet to spare, and continued its run without breaking stride.

A long tongue like some rotting piece of abattoir refuse lolled out over the knife-teeth.

"Jesus H. Christ," breathed Sam.

"Kick me now, Sam," intoned Dean in a leaden voice, "Kick me, shake me, poke me with a pointy stick, just wake me up, wake me up RIGHT NOW, I can't find my ruby slippers…"

"It's real Dean, you're not dreaming," said Sam, watching the hound lope easily along the highway, "It's out there, and it's visible, and it's FUCK!" More honking, more shrieking, and the hellhound leapt another car. "You can't leave it out there, bro! Get it back in the car!"

"What? What? Back in the car? Are you nuts? Why should I get it back in the car?"

"Because _people can see it_, Dean! Since you summoned it, you'll have to deal with it!" barked Sam.

"I… I did_ what_?"

"You summoned it, smartass! I don't know how, but you, Prankmeister, have called forth a hound of The Pit! Now call it in here - it's scaring the civilians!"

"Scaring the civilians? Sam, it's scaring me! It's AAAAAARGH SHIT!" Another honk, another leap. "Get your mangy hide back in here, Fido!" Dean howled.

The back seat was immediately filled with the demonic space-packing. Two red eyes gazed at him.

Sam pulled his phone out and dialled. "Bobby? Yeah, we're on our way. Um, look, we've got a bit of a problem, we might need some help. No, scratch that, we have a huge problem and we will need lots of help with this…"

Dean gazed levelly back at the red eyes in the mirror. "I'm warning you," he snarled, dropping a hand to the shotgun, "Just one wrong move, and I'll put this between your eyes, seat damage be damned. And you even _think _about farting, and I'm putting you on the roof."

* * *

...which raises an interesting question: when a hellhound farts, what does it smell like? If there are any experts in demonic canine gastroenterology out there, I'd like to know, for the sake of accuracy. (If you don't have a PhD in Intestinal Disorders of Infernal Creatures, make something up.)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley," breathed Bobby, taking in the sight of the ghastly thing standing in his yard. "I thought you were pulling some sort of prank when Sam called, but this…" he gestured helplessly at the monster sitting by his scorched porch step. It had cocked its leg again as soon as it oozed out of the car; it sat in a small patch of blackened grass, managing to look demonic-yet-faintly-embarrassed.

"Not interested in your kinky side, Bobby," growled Dean, "How do I get rid of it?"

"Get rid of it? Get _rid_ of it?" Bobby's voice rose along with his eyebrows. "Boy, I have no idea how you summoned it to start with! Do you have _any_ understanding of what you've done here? You've summoned a friggin' _hellhound_. There _is _no spell to summon a hellhound! How can I undo a spell that doesn't exist?"

"But what's it doing here, Bobby?" asked Dean plaintively. "I gave it a piece of Henderson's shirt for scent!" Bobby rolled his eyes.

"And who was the last person to touch that piece of cloth, leaving the freshest scent, hmmmm, Einstein?" Dean looked sheepish as Bobby removed his hat and scratched his head. "From what Sam told me, your wording was pretty clear: called to your pack, your hunt, your prey. Basically, you've called it to Hunt with you. So here it is, and that's what it's ready to do."

"How did he do it, Bobby?" asked Sam, ever the intellectually curious one, "How did he do a spell that doesn't exist?"

Bobby snorted in amusement. "Where does any spell come from, Sam?" he asked. "Someone figures out what works, it gets written down. Seems like your idjit brother just happened to try a formula that works for calling a hellhound."

"But Dean's hopele… this sort of thing is not his strongest suit," said Sam, "It's like a third-grader inventing a working model of a cold-fusion nuclear power plant!"

"Gee, thanks for that," muttered Dean, as Bobby turned to look squarely at him.

"One thing we do know about hellhounds - once they're on a mission, they stick at it until the job's done", explained the old Hunter, scratching his head again. "You've set it a pretty open-ended task, though, so it could be with you for a while. I'll see what I can dig up, but…I gotta tell you son, I don't even know where to start. It's gonna take time."

"This thing can't follow us around!" yelped Dean, horrified.

"That's exactly what it's going to do, so you'd better get used to the idea."

"But, but… it's _hideous_!" Dean wailed. "People can see it! It doesn't fit in the car! It pees alien blood! IT SMELLS BAAAAAD!"

"Weeeeeeell, maybe we can do something about that," mused Bobby.

"What? How?"

"Well, maybe we can tweak its physical form…"

"Bobby, no amount of plastic surgery, not even by the most expensive vet in Beverly Hills, could possibly do anything to make that, that thing look any less like a hellspawned monster!"

"A Beverly Hills vet, no," agreed Bobby, "But maybe you can, Dean."

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

"I feel like an idiot," mumbled Dean, as Sam arranged the lacy doily on his head once again.

"Well, you are one," Bobby grumped back, shuffling through a handful of creased pamphlets. "Here, read from this bit. Can we get on with it before Fluffy here torches my house?" Another tree had been scorched at the base – Dean had apparently managed to summon a hellhound with a weak bladder.

Sam handed him the bread-knife. "Your Wand Of Office, O Prankmeister," he intoned, bowing low. "You're right - not many guys could carry off a doily, Dean, but on you, it looks good."

"Not when I'm holding a knife, Sam," grumbled Dean, glass beads bobbing as he scanned the pamphlet.

The hellhound sat in Bobby's yard, in front of a 'Snaggletooth' scratched into the ground. With a pained look, Dean cut a piece from his own shirt, and dropped it to the ground. Sam handed him the algebra book with the pamphlet open on it; Dean cleared his throat, and began to read.

"Breed standard," he began. "General Appearance: Medium to large size, stalwart dog, the compact and powerful build bestows great strength, agility and endurance…"

As they watched, a reddish glow, barely in the visible spectrum, began to shimmer around the monstrous thing.

"For dogs, a maximum height of 27" is permitted, weight may go up to 60 kg, dependent on build and height…"

The thing's form began to waver, as if in a heat haze, then it began to shrink.

"Depth of chest is approximately 50% of the height…The head is broad between the ears, the forehead line is arched, the desired ratio of backskull to muzzle is 3 to 2… expression is noble and alert, the face expressing the masculinity or femininity of the animal…"

Its form wavered and buckled, a wax figure placed too close to a fire, then remoulded.

"The back is firm and level, the chest is broad and deep, reaching the elbow… Legs are strongly developed with straight, heavy bone…Outer coat is straight, coarse and dense, lying flat… color is always black, with rust to mahogany markings…"

The bulk contracted, darkened, solidified.

"Temperament: good-natured, placid in basic disposition, obedient, eager to work. He is devoted to his immediate family. His appearance is natural and rustic, his behaviour is self-assured, steady and fearless. He reacts to his surroundings with great alertness…" Dean looked up from the pamphlet and sighed, his doily drooping. "Look, if I have to have this damned thing following me around, I want it to be as good-looking as me. You know, chick magnet. And it had better be happy, no scaring off the chicks…"

A final blurring and rearrangement, a last flourish of the bread-knife, a waggle of the doily, and…

"Holy crap," breathed Bobby.

A large Rottweiler stood, looking at them with big dark eyes in a finely chiselled, appealing face. As they watched, red highlights crackled briefly across the chocolate brown irises. It gave them a cheerful doggy grin.

"Jesus, Dean," Bobby spoke again, "He's… magnificent. Look at those lines… his proportions are perfect…" He walked slowly around the dog – it ignored him, keeping its eyes on Dean.

Sam smiled. "Wow," he said, "That has got to be the best-looking hellhound in the history of… history."

Even Dean seemed taken aback by the hound's new appearance. "Well, yeah, obviously," he managed, finally, "You know, noble and alert. Expressing essential masculinity. Just like me. Chick magnet. Bobby, will you please stop having eye sex with the hellhound? You're creeping me out."

"Hmmm? Sorry." Bobby shook himself. "Fine job, though."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it, because as soon as we find a way to get rid of it, it's outta here," growled Dean.

"So, what now?" said Sam.

"For now, he stays out in the yard, keeps Rumsfeld company," said Bobby. "If he's going to stay around, he can earn his keep…"

"It! It! It's an it!" corrected Dean, a trifle petulantly. "Don't call it a he!"

"Actually, son," drawled Bobby, grinning, "If you look closely, I think you'll find that he is very much a he…"

"Natural and rustic," confirmed Sam, his eyes widening slightly. "Hell's bells, he's hung like a…"

"IT! IT'S AN IT!" insisted Dean, "What are you two freaks doing checking out a hellhound's junk? Jesus, there is no word to describe how fucking perverted that is!"

"Ruff." The three of them turned to see Rumsfeld emerge from between two car bodies, ears pricked as she surveyed the newcomer. It sat, head cocked.

"Arf?" it went, as if testing out vocal cords. "Arf? Arf."

Rumsfeld circled the newcomer warily, then leaned in to sniff noses.

"Ruff," she declared, before turning to saunter haughtily back to her favorite sunbathing car body hood.

"Well, I guess the lady of the house don't mind him stayin' for now…" observed Bobby.

"It! It's an it!"

"… so why don't we go inside, and I'll tell you about this job I'd like you two idjits to take a look at?"

"Sure, Bobby," replied Sam, while Dean turned to the hellhound.

"Behave!" he hissed at it, "Don't… don't dissolve anything!"

* * *

_We interrupt this story for a message from our author:_

So, still here? If you're enjoying this piece of utter silliness, why not check out my other stories? *dons feathered headdress and tutu and gestures extravagantly* See if you can spot the theme: there's...

SONOFABITCH - has something for everyone. For SamGirls, Sam shows off the results of all those Drama Classes he took at school, for DeanGirls, Dean takes a bath and then runs out into the yard wearing nothing but some soapsuds, and for BobbyWimmen, he gets the last laugh.

SUPPOSED TO GO TO HEAVEN - there's gingerbread, bitchfacing, accusations of furtive flatulence and some theological explanation of how the Pearly Gates do not work from Cas.

*tap dances off stage* thank you, thank you, I'm here all week, try the chicken, I'll be back with another chapter of utter silliness soon, I just gotta think up a name for this damned dog... *tappity tappity tap*


	7. Chapter 7

Holy crap, this story just keeps growing and growing... but I think I may just see a hint of light at the end of the tunnel - let's try to get there before Christmas! And we gotta introduce this animal to Castiel at some point. Where's that doily? Ahem. Onwards! Follow me! If only out of morbid curiosity...

* * *

Chapter Seven

First there was The Desperate Scratching.

Then, there came The Distressed Whimpering.

Bobby had been giving the Winchesters the details of suspicious deaths in a number of animal shelters in Minnesota, but had to stop when the noise of an anxious Rottweiler trying to dig its way through the door became too disruptive.

"What the hell's it doing now?" growled Dean.

"Sounds like he wants to be where you are," suggested Bobby. "Why don't you go try telling him to be quiet?"

"It's an it!" sulked Dean, getting up to open the door and glare at the hound. At the sight of him, it settled immediately, and offered a doggy grin.

"Hey! Knock it off!" he told the hound, "If you're going to look like a dog, then you can damned well pretend to be one! Obedient, remember? So shut up!"

The damned thing cocked its head, looking up at him with adoring eyes. He groaned, and went back inside.

Sam had the laptop out, and Dean was poring over a map when The Howling began.

It was a sad howl. It was an evocative howl. It was a howl that embodied loneliness and abandonment.

It was the howl RinTinTin would use if he found Rusty's scalped corpse after an Indian raid. The howl that Lassie would give if Timmy fell into the well and drowned before she could fetch help. The howl that Dr Pavlov's dogs would set to when they found out that all there was for dinner was bell-ringing. The howl that Inspector Rex would raise if he was informed that there were no ham sandwiches left in all of Western Europe. The howl that Tramp would voice if he found out that Lady had ditched him and was enjoying kinky threesome action with the Siamese cats.

…_devoted to his immediate family…_

It was a howl signifying that the howler was The Saddest Dog In The World.

"Well, I guess it's understandable," sighed Bobby, looking up from the grimoire he was consulting, "From his point of view, he's been pulled away from 'home' and landed in a strange place…"

"In a strange body," added Sam.

"…In a strange body, yep, and everything's unfamiliar. Rumsfeld was like that as a youngster. Rumsfeld was too, and Rumsfeld after him, they take a little while to settle in…"

"IT! It – is – an – IT!" said Dean between clenched teeth.

The heart-rend howl started again, the howl that Balto would've let out if he'd arrived in Nome with the whooping cough serum and all the dear wee sick brave little kiddies were already dead…

"Go call him in, Dean," said Bobby, "We aint gettin' any peace otherwise. He may need you to call him to get past the wards."

"Bobby, it – IT - is a fucking hellhound!" Dean ground out.

"Maybe, but you and your idiot pranking have summoned him, and made him think he's a dog, and now he thinks he's a distressed dog," said Bobby in an even tone, "So until we figure out how to send him back where he came from, you are responsible for him, and that means, no cruelty to dumb animals."

"But Bobby…"

"Dean, if you are suggesting that we should condone cruelty to dumb animals, we will start with you feeling the back of my hand, boy." Bobby's voice was decidedly unpranking. Reluctantly, Dean went to the door and opened it.

Rumsfeld lounged on her hood-top sun bed, her bedraggled purple fluffy toy between her front paws. Her disdainful expression was clear: _I did my best, biped, look, I even tried the hippo - see what you can do with it._ If she'd been human, she would've been conspicuously inspecting her nails, possibly flipping open her phone to complain to a friend about her disappointment with The New Guy: _he's, like, OMG totally hot, but he's been, like, crying for his Alpha for the last fifteen minutes…._

Dean's beleaguered brain immediately labelled that expression Rumsfeld's Samface #1™.

The howling stopped, and was replaced by the doggy grin again.

"Come on inside, you," sighed Dean. The dog followed him indoors.

"Stay off the furniture, fella," said Bobby gruffly. The dog curled up on the rug, seemingly content. Peace restored, the Winchesters returned to their research on the unexplained pet shelter deaths.

"There's a pattern here, I think," muttered Dean, marking the map – the intellectual rigour and subtlety of spell-casting might not be his forte, but pulling information into a coherent picture was. "The shelters were here, here, and here… it's like a search pattern, only out of sequence and going backwards, inwards."

"Does it converge?" asked Sam.

"Hang on… Minneapolis," said Dean. Another idea was jumping up and down in the back of his mind, waving its neurons to get his attention. "Sam, did Cas leave you the details of when those demons jemmied the Heavenly back door?"

"Yeah, here… why?"

"Because…" he pulled the laptop towards him, "…There. Those break-ins Upstairs were, Earth-time, pretty close to three of the animal shelter die-offs."

"We should go check it out," said Sam, "See if we can find a connection, let Cas know if we do."

"Yeah," agreed Dean, "Talk to the animal shelter staff, maybe see if we can head off any other… what the hell are you doing?"

"Um," said Sam, looking up guiltily from where he was feeding a piece of sandwich to the helldog under the table. A wistful black face appeared by Sam's leg, licking its chops, and also managing to look guilty.

"Sam," admonished Dean, "What are you doing feeding it? Don't feed it! You'll just… encourage it!"

"He was hungry," mumbled Sam in token defiance. Two pairs of puppy dog eyes on high beam looked at him.

"Stop it!" grumbled Dean, "Both of you, just… stop that! Stop it with the 'I've just been kicked' eyes!" He paused. "Don't think I don't know you bitches are double-teaming me..."

He was pretty sure the whine came from the dog, but he couldn't be completely certain.

"He aint the only one," announced Bobby, "I think it's time to feed all the residents, regardless of number of legs, or existential plane of origin." Sam and the dog both smiled.

"Fine, I'll go get dinner," sighed Dean. "What do we want? Pizza? Chinese? A few pounds of minced deal-makers for Fluffy here?"

"Pizza sounds good," said Bobby, "Hold the smartass."

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

Dean was out the door and getting into the Impala before he realised that the dog was at his heels.

"No! No! You stay here! Good... infernal creature." he ordered. The dog sat, and watched as he slid into the car and drove off.

"Aaaaaargh!" less than twenty yards down the road, it materialized in the back seat, grinning.

"You'd better behave," Dean muttered, "I still have a shotgun with iron shot in the trunk."

Waiting for their pizzas, Dean lounged on a plastic chair, one eye on his baby outside, and one eye on the shapely brunette serving up pasta to another customer. A couple of teenagers strolled up to the Impala, paused, looked around. One of them tried a door handle…

An explosion of snarling, slavering hellhound-in-a-Rottweiler-suit detonated in the back seat, teeth gnashing, red traces sparking angrily across its eyes. The kid let out a shriek and stumbled backwards.

Dean grinned. _Nice one, Fido._ He wondered idly if there would be any money in summoning hellhounds and installing them as car alarms.

When he collected his pizzas, he heard light footsteps following, and turned to see the brunette from the shop behind him.

"Is that your dog?" she asked, smiling at the hellhound. "He sure is protective of his car."

"Yeah, he is," said Dean, putting on his own winning smile, "But don't be fooled, he's a big softy, really."

"He's a handsome boy," she gushed, "My uncle has dogs just like him. Can I pet him?"

Dean hesitated, throwing a glance at the animal. It was sitting, head cocked adorably, with the high-beam Sammy eyes turned on. It raised one paw to the glass of the window.

"Yeah, sure," said Dean, opening the door and letting it step out onto the sidewalk, where it sat at her feet and raised a paw again.

…_chick magnet. And it had better be happy, no scaring off the chicks…_

"Whuff?" it went.

"Oh, he's just adorable!" she trilled, bending down to ruffle the dog's head while simultaneously giving Dean an eyeful of the generous endowment beneath her shirt, "What's his name?"

"His name?" Dean's mouth dropped open, but he covered smoothly. "Jimi," he said with a cocky grin, "I called him Jimi, because he's black, he's talented, and the ladies just love him."

"Oh, I'll bet they do!" she enthused, "Aren't you a handsome boy, Jimi? Aren't you just gaw-jus!"

"Naaaaaaaaaah," went the dog, lolling in delight as she scratched under his chin.

She leaned further down, letting Dean check out her ass as her cell phone fell from her apron pocket.

…_eager to work…_

Jimi the hellhound snatched it up and sat up on his haunches, radiating helpfulness. Dean rolled his eyes. _Dude, you lay it on any thicker, you'll need a trowel…_

"Oh, thank you Jimi," she practically sang, as Dean wondered if she was going to kiss the damned dog right there. "Oh God, I'm being so rude!" she said, straightening up, suddenly serious, holding out a hand. "I'm Susan."

"Dean," he shook her hand with a seductive smile, gritting his teeth as Jimi whuffed again, offering his own paw and insisting on shaking hands too. Susan practically melted.

Two minutes later, Dean had her number, and they were headed back to Bobby's. He met the dark eyes in the mirror.

"Okay, pretty good work, there," he conceded grudgingly, "But you gotta turn it down a notch or two. You were totally cock-blocking me there for a while."

"Rmph" went Jimi, settling on the seat.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

"Look, you're a dog now," explained Dean later that night, as newly-christened Jimi whined and looked up at him with anxious eyes, "Big brave scary dogs sleep outside. Outside. See?" He pointed to the large kennel. "You have your own special house to sleep in. Complete with a hot chick to keep you warm." He indicated Rumsfeld, who was lounging in the kennel, watching the proceedings with interest. "You can't sleep with me. That would be… weird. And you won't fit anyway. And if you fart it's probably nerve gas and you'll kill us all. And why are we even talking about this? Look," he sighed, "I won't be far away, that's my window, right up there, if anything is wrong you just bark and I'll hear you, and I'll see you first thing in the morning, and I don't believe I'm even having this conversation."

With an air of pained resignation, Jimi slunk over to the kennel, and lay down next to Rumsfeld with a deep sigh. She licked one of his ears as if in sympathy. _Humans, eh? They're the strangest animals…_

"And no sulking," Dean called over his shoulder as he went back inside.

"Jimi settled in?" asked Bobby – Dean had been forced to recount The Pizza Girl Incident when quizzed on what had taken so long.

"Yeah, I think so," replied Dean, "Maybe Rumsfeld can distract him."

"Maybe," mused Bobby, "Although if I find him getting too 'distracted' with Rumsfeld, the second bucket of cold water will be going over you." Sam snorted in amusement.

"HUA," muttered Dean, yawning. "I'm turning in. Don't make too much noise, Samantha."

Upstairs, he dropped heavily onto his bed and pulled his boots off – it had been a long day, with no progress on the hellhound problem. Bobby wasn't kidding; there was no precedent to work from. He sighed; they were going to need all the help they could get on this one.

He knelt by his bed, put his hands together and closed his eyes - messages were always more likely to get through if you used the right format, filled in the right form. There was probably some Heavenly secretary who took a grim satisfaction in knocking back requests that didn't conform to the Company pro forma…

He squelched the mental picture of a fat, greying angel with thick glasses, hair in a severe bun and an expression like a cat's ass, sitting at a desk and feeding unsatisfactory prayers into a shredder, and sent out his prayer.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,

I've got myself in trouble, deep.

Tonight I pray, dear Castiel,

My prayer will find you safe and well.

I hope and pray it comes to pass

You'll come and help my sorry ass,

And if before I wake, I die,

I hope that Heaven's full of pie.

Amen."

* * *

I have no idea if the Inspector Rex series have been or are shown in the US. If they're not, go Google 'em: Inspector Rex is a German Shepherd police dog, who shows off a new trick every episode. He has a fondness for ham sandwiches (which was explained in a movie about him when he was a puppy; he stole his first ham sandwich at the age of about eight weeks). His latest series has him based in Rome, after he supposedly 'retired' there from Austria, but he kept escaping his retirement kennel, locking his minder in, and using public transport to get from Italy back to Austria. I kid you not...


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Did you contact Cas?" asked Sam over breakfast.

"I sent a p-mail," replied Dean, "You know how flustered he gets with phones – I've lost track of how many he's smote after they told him he was running out of minutes."

"We need to tell him about the pet shelter pattern matching up with the demon intrusions," said Sam. "So, if it's a search pattern going backwards, what's in the middle of it?" mused Sam over breakfast.

"This is where you do your Laptop Dancing, Samantha, and find out," replied Dean, gesturing with a piece of toast. "The pattern suggests that something is going to happen soon; maybe we can pick up something when we go to YEEEEEEEEEP!" Something warm and damp dropped into his lap. He looked down to see a black muzzle resting there, and a pair of wistful eyes focused on the piece of toast.

"Sonofabitch!" he shouted, jumping up. "Fuck me, what are you doing inside?"

"He walked through the door this morning," supplied Bobby, flipping bacon out of the pan.

"What the hell are you doing letting him in?" queried Dean, carefully holding his toast out of range.

"Are you deaf as well as cranky, boy?" asked Bobby, "I said, he walked _through_ the door. Jimi!" The dog trotted over to Bobby and sat licking his chops. Bobby dropped a piece of burned bacon.

"What's that about?" asked Dean.

"Bacon trumps toast. Simple, really," said Bobby, sitting down.

"No, I mean, why are you feeding him?"

"He didn't eat much last night," Sam volunteered, "I think he was probably still a bit disoriented, and it would've been the first time he's ever seen dog kibble."

"Oh, well, right, that explains it," answered Dean, nodding sagely, "Obviously we should've weaned him onto the change of diet gradually, over the course of a week, say, mixing a bit more kibble into his minced souls every night so we don't upset his poor little tummy… hey, don't do that!"

"Oh, bite me," scowled Sam, slipping a chunk of egg to Jimi under the table, "He has nicer manners than you."

"I'm surrounded by idiots," muttered Dean, sitting again, "Sentimental idiots STOP DOING THAT!" The warm damp sensation had returned to his lap. "No sane man could be calm about having a hellhound's teeth that close to his junk..." He glared down at the big brown eyes gazing up at him. "Okay, I give you the toast, you take it outside – that's the deal." He offered the toast to Jimi, who took it gently, and trotted to the door, disappearing through it.

"We gotta put a stop to that, it'll freak the civilians out… what?" Dean asked in exasperation when a grinning black head reappeared through the door. "You look like a hunting trophy," he said as the dog whuffed at him, "Stuffed and mounted, it's an appealing thought…"

"He wants more toast, I think," suggested Sam, grinning, as he nodded out the window. Rumsfeld was sitting on her car hood, chewing on the first piece.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh God, you're chasing tail with pieces of toast? You're as useless as Sam. Here," he offered a piece of bacon to Jimi, who gave him a doggy grin, took it carefully, and disappeared through the door again.

Bobby pointedly filled a bucket with water, and left it sitting on the sink.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

"Another shelter's been hit," announced Sam, scanning an article online, "Same as the others, no signs of break-in, passers-by heard the animals go ballistic all at once, then sudden silence."

"What for?" Dean muttered, pacing, "What's killing stray dogs, and why? Any luck on the hellhound front, Bobby?"

"Found another picture," Bobby replied, grinning, "But it's not nearly as handsome as your boy. Speak of the devil…" a brisk clicking of nails on the floor signalled Jimi's arrival.

"Okay, we have to lay some ground rules about the basic laws of physics and solid matter," began Dean, but Jimi sat in front of him, and barked twice, urgently.

"Sounds like he wants something," said Sam. Jimi barked again.

Dean rolled his eyes. "What's that, Lassie? Timmy's fallen in the well? Serves the annoying little asshole right… hey!" Jimi put his head against Dean's leg and butted firmly, pushing him backwards. "Look, I don't have any more toast, so…"

There was a familiar flapping sound, and Castiel appeared just in time to have Jimi turn, leap up and put front paws on his shoulders.

"Oh!" said the angel, his eyes widening slightly as Jimi stared into them.

"This is not Rumsfeld," he stated finally. He looked back at the damp nose a couple of inches from his own. "That was… surprising. I was not expecting suddenly to find a dog so close to me." He resumed staring at Jimi. "Where did this dog come from? Its proximity is… uncomfortable."

Dean didn't try very hard to keep the smirk out of his voice. "Could it be, Cas, could it possibly be that you don't like having him appear unannounced into your… _personal space_?"

Cas looked thoughtful. "Yes," he decided, "I believe that is the case. I do not like having you intrude into my personal space," he said seriously to Jimi, "It is unpleasant. Please withdraw at once."

Jimi did as requested, moving to sit next to Dean and glare warily at Castiel. Dean grinned smugly. "Nice work, Jimi," he murmured.

"I received your message," continued Castiel, "Denael in Reception says that your scansion has improved since your last prayer. Do you have any information about the demon intrusions into Heaven?"

"Sort of, we think," said Sam, explaining what they'd found. "We're planning to head to Minneapolis to check it out."

"That would be prudent," agreed the angel, turning to Dean. "Your prayer mentioned that you required help with your…." He glanced down, "Your… nether regions. They do not appear to be injured or diseased in any way, nor do I believe that you, Dean Winchester, would ever be sorry for anything you have done with them…"

Dean sighed as Sam chortled at Castiel's eternal angelic failure to grasp figures of speech like 'sorry ass'. " I meant that I needed help with a problem. Specifically, him." He gestured to Jimi, who grinned doggily up at Castiel.

The angel cocked his head. "I do not believe that I can be of much assistance," he said gravely. "There are professionals who specialize in training dogs – one of them could instruct you on how to train him to stay out people's personal space…"

"That's not what I meant! Look at him!" Dean tried again, "I mean, really _look_ at him."

Castiel did - his expression went from surprise to disbelief to utter confusion.

"That is a hellhound," he announced finally.

"Well done, Cas," trilled Dean, "You can be my show judging steward, you can even hold the clipboard…"

"What this idjit here is trying to say," cut in Bobby, with a 'knock it off' frown at Dean, "Is that in a fit of stupidity, he managed to summon a Hound of the Pit, and now he'd like some help getting rid of him."

Castiel cocked his head, confused. "Humans cannot summon hellhounds. No such incantation exists."

"Well, it does now," humphed Sam, relating how the Prankmeister had inadvertently worked an actual spell. Castiel looked concerned.

"I should examine those artefacts," he stated, "They may be dangerously powerful items."

Sam found a Motorhead album cover online for Castiel to look at. "That is a most interesting piece of concept art," commented the angel, "But not occult." He glanced at Dean. "I do not understand why that girl in Denver called you this; it is clearly based on a steam locomotive, and you bear no resemblance to it…"

"Oh God, too much information," groaned Sam, closing the picture of the 'Orgasmatron' album cover.

The bread-knife was examined and quickly dismissed. The only thing possibly occult about the algebra book was a note in a margin in Latin.

"Dean podex est," read Castiel aloud. Sam chortled.

"Little bitch, calling me an asshole…" muttered Dean.

"Well, you'd just thrown my book of log tables out the window…" countered Sam.

"Moving right along," interrupted Bobby, handing over the doily. Castiel peered at it, and frowned.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"It's Bobby's," replied Dean, "He collects them."

"I don't exactly 'collect' them," explained Bobby, "They… get given to me."

"Where _do_ your doilies actually come from?" asked Sam. Bobby flushed slightly.

"Well, er, I… get them. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, mostly." he stumbled.

"Who from?" Bobby flushed again.

"Well, there's Fiona, she sends me some of her shortbread wrapped up in a doily every Christmas… Lucy sends me gingerbread, for my birthday, in a doily…" He started counting off names on his fingers, "I used to get peanut brittle cookies from Marcy next door, I miss those, and Kerry-Anne sends choc-chip cookies for Christmas, Marilyn always gives me some of her cookies at Thanksgiving, she ices 'em so they look like little turkeys, she says a doily is better than bubble wrap for packing 'em, Catherine sends me macaroons, they're real good, I get the odd batch of these things called Anzacs from Louisa since she moved to Australia and went native, damned tasty they are, Josie makes the best damned brownies I've ever tasted, and…" he stopped, looking at the three pairs of incredulous eyes watching him. "What?" he asked.

"So basically," began Sam, "A small yet considerable proportion of the female population is regularly sending you homemade goodies."

"Yep."

"Wrapped in doilies."

"Yep."

"Every year."

"Yep."

"Bobby, you rogue!" grinned Dean, "You've got a woman in every port, sailor…"

"Don't be ridiculous," huffed Bobby gruffly, "I used to Hunt, remember – I just happened to generate gratitude from some damsels in distress."

"I'll bet you did," smirked Dean, waggling his eyebrows. Bobby slapped him upside the head. "If we could all just get our minds above our belts," he growled, Dean still smirking unrepentantly, "What's wrong with the doily, Castiel?"

The angel pointed to the intricate pattern. "This repeating motif resembles the Greek letter kappa. And this pattern is an inverted form of the long-stem Younger Futhark rune for the sound 'r'. They alternate in expanding circles. There are three repeats of each motif." He looked at them expectantly.

Dean gawped. "Er, I'd like to buy a vowel…" he said.

Sam elbowed him. "What does it mean, Cas?"

"Kappa is the first letter of _Kerberos_, the Greek spelling of…"

"Cerberus," finished Bobby, "The watchdog who guards the gates of the Underworld. And you think the rune is for Rag?"

"I believe so," replied Castiel, "The giant dog was believed in Old Norse mythology to act as a guard dog, making sure that the dead did not leave the underworld to trouble the living. Do you have any more of these?"

Bobby had more. A lot more. A large box in a cupboard, stuffed with doilies. Some still had crumbs on them. Dean waggled his eyebrows again with a lewdness that should have been beyond the capacity of normal human eyebrows.

When Castiel had finished examining the contents of the box for occult properties, he announced,

"There are many doilies here, of equally intricate patterning. The production of these items does indeed take a highly skilled practitioner, but I do not believe that any of your lady friends is a witch. This is just an unfortunate coincidence. It is safe for you to continue to consume the baked goods being sent to you."

"Well, that's good to know," smiled Bobby happily.

"Although when I say 'safe', I would caution against immoderate intake of such foodstuffs. Shortbread has a large percentage of saturated animal fat, as do chocolate chips, and the amount of sugar to be found in the cookies referred to as 'Anzacs' is truly astounding, and considering your age and cardiac health and percentage of body fat, especially in the abdominal region..."

"Okay, I'll bear that in mind, Feathers," he grumped, packing his doilies away.

"So, the Doilymeister is not in danger of being poisoned by a nefarious doily-maker practising the evil art of satanic crochet," concluded Dean, "Where does that leave us with him?" He pointed at Jimi, who still sat by his feet.

"I do not know," answered Castiel. "I cannot banish him, or smite him, he will merely return. I will consider the matter, but for now, you will have to take him with you. He may prove to be an asset – hellhounds were originally intended to keep the denizens of the Underworld from escaping, and to hunt down any who did."

"Oh, great, just great," moaned Dean, sinking to the sofa and putting his head in his hands.

Jimi put a reassuring paw on his knee and whuffed. Dean sighed, giving the dog a rueful smile.

"A demon hunter, eh? Why don't you go on outside now, hang with Rumsfeld, patrol the wards?" he suggested, "She's a hot chick, and she likes you. I can tell, because she didn't tear your head off the second she laid eyes on you." Jimi trotted out of the room.

"When do you plan to leave?" asked Castiel.

"In the next day or so," replied Sam, "Dean thinks the pet shelter attacks might be leading up to something, and I'd like to know if they're converging on a place, or an event…"

"Very well," said Castiel, "Contact me if you find anything. Meanwhile, keep the doily safe. Do not let it out of your possession."

"Will do, Captain Crochet," affirmed Dean, as Castiel disappeared in a flap of wings and coat.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

The research was underway again when the quiet of the house was suddenly broken by Bobby's voice raised in ire.

"**OHBALLS-JESUSHCHRIST-GITOUDDAIT-YADAMNEDIDJITFUCKER****!**" came the angry war-yodel.

Dean and Sam leapt to their feet, guns drawn, and rushed to Bobby's aid, ready to take down whatever was invading the house.

They reached the hall just in time to see Bobby, with a face like thunder, hit the door at full speed, carrying a bucket.

They followed him outdoors, in time to see him sling the contents in the direction of…

"Oh dear," said Sam faintly, lowering his gun, as the bucketful of water sloshed in the direction of Jimi and Rumsfeld.

Dean leaned against the wall, looking slightly disappointed. "Hey, Jimi!" he called, "You'll have to do more than just rub asses. He really is as useless as you, Sam. Worse, even, at least you actually managed to…"

"They're tied, Dean," said Sam uncomfortably.

"No they're not, they were just running around loose out here…"

"No, they're _tied_ tied," continued Sam, "It means they've… um…"

"Yeah? Well, what do you expect?" asked Dean, laughing. "His proportions are perfect, he's natural and rustic, he's a chick magnet who's hung like a AAAAAAAAIIIIEEEE!" His eyes bugged as he shrieked in shock, as Sam collapsed against the wall laughing.

"Pfah! Fuck? Fuck!" spluttered Dean, spitting out water. Bobby brandished his empty bucket.

"I warned you," the old Hunter growled dangerously. "You keep your dog away from Rumsfeld, or I swear I'll use that blunt bread-knife to make sure that neither of you is ever described as natural and rustic ever again."

"Yeah, sure Bobby. Sorry." Jimi had disengaged himself, and slunk over to sit beside Dean. Together they managed to drip contritely under Bobby's death-ray glare.

"He's sleeping in your room tonight," announced Bobby, heading back inside.

"He can't sleep with me! He'll take up the whole bed!" protested Dean.

"Then you can go share the kennel with the hot chick, boy," replied Bobby without turning around.

Dean glared at his brother, who was still laughing. "Well, don't just stand there, Samantha," he said, wringing out his shirt, "Go get us some towels before we shake all over you."

* * *

Wow, that's a long one. Anyone who's still reading, award yourself some internets. I'll get them on the road next chapter, promise. (I just had a thought - who'd like to see Dean and Jimi try on matching studded collars?) Oh, and Anzac biscuits are worth trying - proper Anzacs do not have eggs in them. They're supposed to be chewy. And they are full of sugar. And they should never, NEVER be referred to as 'cookies'.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

They were on the road next morning, promising to check in with Bobby when they'd found something. Rumsfeld licked Jimi's ears goodbye (under supervision) as Bobby mumbled ominously about blunt bread-knives.

Jimi settled in the back seat and went to sleep, and they travelled in relative peace, until…

Dean sniffed. "What the…? Ew! Ugh!" He pulled a face, and glared accusingly at Sam. "Gah! Jesus, is that coming from you?"

Sam sniffed, and gave his brother a disdainful look. "Me? I thought it was your new aftershave."

"Open your window," ordered Dean, "I'm warning you, Samantha, I will not have my car… polluted!"

"Dean, it's not me…"

"…You are this close to travelling on the roof…" a rumbling snore from the back seat drew their attention. Jimi was on his back, legs in the air, making small happy 'arf' noises in his sleep. His legs scrabbled briefly, sending fresh waves of the offending odour in their direction.

"Oh, crap," sighed Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You are being a drama queen," he announced, "It's just what dogs do. And what you do, in your sleep and out of it, I might add. Only much louder." He glanced back at Jimi. "And he hasn't asked me to give it a mark out of ten…"

"Sam, my eyes are watering!"

"Open your window, then."

"What, and have that stench sucked past me on the way out? Ha!"

"It's not that bad, Dean…"

"My nose hairs are singeing! It's clogging my lungs!" complained Dean. "If we crash because the nauseating stink dissolve my eyeballs, who'll be squealing like a little bitch drama queen then, huh?"

"Then pull over, I'll wind a back door window down a bit…" The car pulled off the road.

"You think this is funny, don't you?" fumed Dean, underway again.

"Actually, yeah, I do." Sam smiled at him with annoying serenity. "And usually, you find it to be the height of wit. I can't think what's gotten into you. We'll have to report this to Bobby; I bet it's not in any of his books."

"You know, this whole intellectual curiosity thing can go too far," declared Dean.

"It makes sense, in a way, I suppose," mused Sam, "The smell, I mean…"

"I cannot think of any circumstances, not even the most twisted, perverse circumstances, under which it would be necessary for ANYBODY to know what a hellhound's farts smell like."

"Oh, shut up and drive," grinned Sam, laughing openly at his brother.

He'd had fun with Dean's pathological hatred of the scent of lavender before, but he couldn't wait to relay this to Bobby.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

"Maybe this isn't the one," suggested Sam. They sat in the Impala, across the road from a pet shelter on the outskirts of Minneapolis, watching the side gate. After finding a suitably crappy motel, Dean had checked the map, and made a prediction about which shelter was most likely to be affected. He sat in the back seat, feeding burritos to Jimi on the grounds that it couldn't possibly make his car smell any worse.

"If this doesn't pan out, then, we try again tomorrow night," said Dean.

"Buuuuueeeeeerrrrrrrrrp," went Jimi.

"You know, it doesn't work like that," said Sam in a resigned voice.

"How do you know?" countered Dean, "Maybe this will have the Sam Effect on him, and cancel out the lavender, and… wait a sec," he broke off, nodding towards the gate. A young woman walked along the street, paused at the gate, looked around, then quickly climbed the cyclone wire and disappeared.

The Winchesters were quickly on her trail, Jimi trotting silently at Dean's heels. They climbed the gate, and dropped quietly to the other side. A black head appeared through the gate.

"What about Jimi?" asked Sam.

"Like tea through a strainer," grinned Dean, as Jimi trotted straight through the wire netting.

"Where did she go?" wondered Sam, peering into the maze of enclosures.

"I didn't see her," replied his brother, "Search grid, you take that side, I'll go…"

"Wait," broke in Sam, nodding at Jimi. The hound was standing, scenting the air. A crackle of red sparked across his eyes, and he bared his teeth. He dropped his head to the ground, sniffing, tracking, moving soundlessly. "I say we follow him."

"Er, yeah," agreed Dean, drawing his gun.

Jimi tracked noiselessly, leading them past rows of enclosures. Pairs of anxious eyes followed them.

In an aisle of kennels in the middle of the shelter, the woman stood, arms upraised, chanting in a guttural language. Three things then happened very quickly:

Every dog in the shelter erupted into frenzied barking.

Dean took a step towards her, raising his gun, and his foot landed in a bucket. He went clattering to the ground.

She caught sight of the Winchesters, and smiled.

"Too late, Hunters," she snarled, smirking as her eyes flashed black, "I'll kiss an angel for you…"

Before she could finish her final sentence, Jimi appeared through a kennel, running into her at full speed. She went down hard, and he stood over her, hackles up, growling like a bulldozer with indigestion, his eyes glowing vengeful red.

The demon-woman's eyes went wide with fright as she scuttled backwards. "No," she stuttered in horror, "No, no, it's my turn, it's my turn, no, no, nooooooooo!" The boiling black smoke spiralled out of her mouth, heading upwards. Jimi leapt and sank his teeth into the column, which writhed and heaved as he shook it like a terrier with a rat. There was a screeching shriek, a bowel-watering snarl from Jimi, and the dog disappeared in a wink of searing red light.

"What the?... Jimi? Where did he go? Jimi!" called Sam, keeping his gun raised.

"Argh! Shit! SHIT!" Dean disengaged his foot from the poop scoop bucket. "Shit! I stepped in shit!" He looked up and around. "Jimi?" He jumped to his feet.

"He disappeared," said Sam, worry in his voice, "He, he grabbed the demon and disappeared…"

"Jimi! JIMI! Hey, Fluffy, where areAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Dean almost fell over again as Jimi suddenly reappeared right in front of him, grinning his doggy grin, docked tail wagging. "Jesus, dude, personal space!" yelped Dean.

Sam sniffed. "I smell sulfur." He sniffed again. "It's wafting off him. Where did you go, fella?" He reached out to ruffle Jimi's ear, and drew his hand back in confusion. "Hey, he's hot!"

"Well, I did say I wanted him to be as good-looking as me," smirked Dean.

"No, I mean he's literally hot. As in temperature. Heated. Thermally enhanced." Jimi was cooling quickly in the night air, but heat was radiating from the dog like he was a barbeque firepit.

"Er, yeah, definitely warmer than… Sam, how warm is a dog supposed to be?"

"Around a hundred," muttered Sam distractedly, wearing the expression that signalled to Dean that the hamster running in the wheel had popped amphetamines, the gears were turning and Sam Was Figuring Something Out.

The young woman who had been possessed stirred. Jimi whined, trotted over to her, and started licking at her hand. She suddenly sat up with a small scream, looked into his earnest brown eyes, and threw her arms around his neck.

"Thank you, thank you," she sobbed, as Sam and Dean hurried to her side. She looked up at them.

"It… it was inside my head, using my body," she quavered, clinging to Jimi, "I thought I was going to die, until he scared it away…"

"You're safe now," said Sam, slipping into Caring And Compassionate Mode, helping her up, "I'm Sam, this is Dean. Are you a local?"

"Y-yes," she stammered, "I'm Stacey. I was just going out to my car to get my purse, and… and… " her eyes filled with tears and her considerable chest endowment heaved.

"Well, the cavalry has well and truly arrived, Stacey," said Dean, killer smile sliding in place.

"Yeah, I believe that," she said, smiling shakily, "Wasn't he amazing? What's his name?" Her adoring gaze fell back to Jimi.

"That's Jimi," answered Sam, smiling at Dean's scowl while Jimi insisted on shaking hands and Stacey crooned over how brave and handsome he was.

They left the pet shelter, Dean enjoying an opportunity to get a handful of Stacey's ass as he helped her out over the gate, and took her home. She sat in the back of the Impala with Jimi, scratching his ears and telling him how grateful she was. Dean and Jimi walked her to her front door, and they headed back to their motel.

"So, what do you think?" asked Sam.

"I think that the J-Man and I have to have another little talk about not cock-blocking." He pulled a face at Jimi in the mirror. "It took me a full five minutes to get her number!"

"That's not what I meant, Dean…"

"I mean, hey, did you see me trying to hit on Rumsfeld?"

"Earth to Dean, Earth to Dean, this is Mission Control, please deploy mind above belt, over," sighed Sam.

"And I gave you bacon to take to her, instead of lame toast! Ungrateful… sorry, Sam, what?"

Sam gave Dean a shot of Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One) and tried again. "I mean, what do you think about, you know, the demon, the shot about kissing angels?"

"Well, I'd say it was about to try another break-in Upstairs," commented Dean, "But I still don't get the connection with the pet shelters. And Jimi's Houdini act," he glanced at the dog in the mirror again, "Where did you go, fella?"

"I think he went to Hell," said Sam. Dean shot him a look.

"What?"

"I think he went to Hell," repeated Sam, "You saw him grab the demon once it left Stacey? He terrified it into try to flee, then he… grabbed it, and disappeared. He reappeared radiating like a brick oven, smelling of sulfur."

"You think?" asked Dean. "I thought that was just the burritos kicking in…"

"I think he tracked the demon, flushed it, nabbed it, and dragged it back to Hell," concluded Sam.

Dean looked at Jimi in the mirror again. "You did that?"

"Ruff," went Jimi, settling back down onto the seat, rolling high-beam Sammy eyes up at him.

"Well, good work, there," conceded Dean. "But you still gotta dial down the charm thing. Or I'll tell Rumsfeld. I think she might be the jealous type; she'll do terrible things to your natural rusticness."

Sam could've sworn that the dog humphed.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

_Rustle-rustle-scruffle-humph-hurrrumph-scruff-scruff-sigh_

"Dean, will you settle and go to sleep?" implored Sam, as his brother turned over in bed again.

"My feet are cold," complained Dean. "I can't get comfy when my feet are cold. Why do the heaters in these places never work properly?" _Rustle-rustle-scuffle_

"Because they're cheap and nasty. That's why we stay here. Put more socks on," said Sam.

"I'm wearing my two thickest pairs. I can't fit any more on." _Scuffle-rustle-sigh_

"Dean, if you don't stop tossing and turning, I will cut your feet off, and then you won't have to worry any more…"

"It was that stupid bucket, having to hose my feet off like that…" Dean felt a sudden dip on the bed. "Oh, no," he warned, "It was cute when you were five years old, but I am NOT having you climb into my bed, Gigantor, I'm not THAT cold and you snore and steal the covers and whack me in the face and touch me in places that only the ladies get to touch…"

"Ruff," said a voice in the dark, settling at the foot of the bed. Dean's head shot up. A large lump was silhouetted on the end of his bed.

"Hey!" he squawked, "What are you doing up here? There's a rug over there with your name on it! Bobby says that if dogs were supposed to get on the furniture, they'd be born wearing carpet slippers!" Jimi sighed hugely, and closed his eyes. Dean noticed that his feet were considerably warmer with the dog curled against them.

"Okay, then, you can stay there," he said, "But no touching me in funny places, because from Sam it's disturbing enough, but from you it would be just weird. And probably illegal."

Dean stoppled rustling. Sam stopped complaining. Silence descended.

Then…

"Oh, damn," muttered Dean.

"What?" groaned an exasperated Sam.

"I think those burritos have kicked in." There was a sniff and a decidedly uncharitable chuckle from Sam's bed. Dean sighed.

Lavender. Only now, with an undertone of jasmine.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

It was a nice dream. Dean's dreams were usually terrifying, about blood, and Hell, and pain, and loss, and Sam, and blood and pain, and Sam and blood, and loss and Sam and Hell, and Sam and bunnies (admittedly that one probably qualified as 'disturbing' rather than 'terrifying', but it was wake-up-screaming disturbing nonetheless). So it was a pleasant change to be dreaming about something – somebody – nice. Some body nice. And what a nice body it was, too, a combination of Susan the Pizza Girl and Stacey Of The Grabbable Ass, maybe with some Angelina Jolie thrown in, a lovely body to go with the lovely face of the lovely brunette, as she snuggled up to him. Her hair was thick and luxuriant, just calling out 'stroke me, big boy,' so he did, and she sighed contentedly, smiling beautifully, stretching and squirming her way up his body, planting kisses on his chest, his neck, his ear, then licking enthusiastically at his nose… wait, what?...

"Gnnnarrf," he groaned, opening one eye to see Jimi's nose less than an inch above his own.

"Yaaargeddoff!" he yodelled, snapping awake, cross-eyed, trying to bring the grinning face into focus. Jimi gave him a final good morning kiss, and jumped from the bed.

"Oh, you're awake then," observed Sam, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed, pecking at the laptop.

"Yes. Yes, I am. Yes, I am now definitely awake," grumbled Dean, "And do you know why I am awake?"

"I presume it's because you finished sleeping," answered Sam, not looking up.

"Actually, it had something to do with an alarm dog going off in my face!" He scowled at Sam. "Why didn't you do something?"

"I did do something," said Sam, passing over his phone. The photo showed Dean and Jimi stretched out on the queen bed, snuggled together. Dean had an arm draped over Jimi, and wore a beautiful smile. Jimi had his head tucked under Dean's chin, and wore a happy doggy grin.

"You took a _picture_?" Dean breathed in disbelief. "He could've eaten my face off!"

"Dude, you stuffed him so full of burritos last night, I doubt he could fit in a single ear. Besides," continued Sam, "Not only did he stop you whining about being cold, you sounded as though you were enjoying yourself."

"What?" said Dean incredulously.

"You remember that time in Colorado when you disappeared for the weekend with those twins? Your dreams were positively pornographic for a week afterwards. I know, because I had to listen to the soundtrack every night. You sounded like that."

Dean flushed slightly, and muttered something containing the word 'bitch', flinging Sam's phone back at him. "Any further ideas?"

"Not on the why, but possibly on the when," replied Sam, "I think you're right – the number of animals affected in each attack has been increasing. Last night's attack would've been the biggest shelter hit so far. Whatever it's leading up to, within the week. Morning, Jimi," he smiled down at the dog who had sauntered over to greet him. "Oh, look," he continued in a disappointed voice, "Dean deleted that sweet photo of the two of you from my phone. Isn't he a meanie?"

"I want breakfast," grumped Dean, getting dressed, "Go do your hair and make-up, Samantha."

"Yes, he's such a meanie," Sam went on, scratching Jimi's ears, "Isn't it a good thing I downloaded it…"

"Sam…"

"… and set it as my wallpaper…" Sam beamed at his brother, and darted into the bathroom, leaving Dean to scrabble at the laptop where he was confronted with the awful evidence.

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!" Dean sighed, and ruefully patted Jimi's head.

"You're lucky we're in Minnesota," he said, "The minute the temperature gets above fucking freezing, you're back on the floor, okay?"

"Ruff," went Jimi, managing to convey a belief that he would have bed-sharing access for a while yet.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy, Sam," said Dean, handing the corn chip bag to Sam as they pulled into the lot of the pet warehouse, "It's just a store". His little brother grabbed it, and started panting into it.

"Cra… cra… cra… " wheezed Sam, panting into the bag.

"Take it easy, bro, just breathe," soothed Dean, putting a calming hand on Sam's shoulder. Jimi offered an encouraging whuff from the back seat.

"Crazy Dog People," managed Sam when the panic attack had subsided, "These places are staffed by Crazy Dog People." The terrifying experience of wandering unsuspecting into the lair of the Crazy Dog Women when Dean had been turned into a dog-in-a-human-body had left deep-seated psychological scars. He had never completely recovered from the mental picture of Dean wearing a studded collar and matching harness.

"Look, we have to get him some stuff," said Dean. When they'd stopped for gas in the morning, the large dog without a collar or leash had attracted unwanted attention. Fortunately, Jimi had charmed the police officer with a show of adorable big brown eyes, shaking hands and impeccable obedience, and she has been satisfied with warning Dean to fit him with one ASAP. "We need to get him dog food, anyway" – Dean did not want a repeat of the hint-of-jasmine episode – "And a collar is a good idea, make him look ordinary and domesticated. You can stay in the car. Me and Jimi can do this."

"No, no, I'm good," said Sam determinedly. "This time, I know what I'm walking into."

"Attaboy."

"And I've got my big brother and his faithful hound to protect me."

"We'll have your back, bro." Jimi whuffed encouragingly again, nudging Sam's shoulder.

"I'll be fine."

"Absolutely."

"And I have a silver knife, you know, just in case…" One of his eyes twitched slightly.

"Er, I really don't think it will be necessary to stab anybody," suggested Dean carefully. He turned to Jimi. "Any C.D.P. looks like she's getting too close to Sam, I need you to run interference. Turn on those big Sammy eyes, and distract her, okay?"

"Rumff", rumbled Jimi, with a resolute expression. _I'll watch the kid, Chief._

"Good man." Dean got out of the car and opened the door for Jimi. Sam climbed out and squared his shoulders. He took the corn chip bag with him just in case.

He needn't have worried. The second Dean and Jimi stepped through the door, the gaggle of Crazy Dog Women descended on them with inarticulate cries of adoration.

"Oooooh, hello, handsome!" a buxom red-head burbled happily at Jimi, as he shook hands with the Crazy Dog Women one at a time, "And your human's kinda cute too," she added. "How can I help you boys today?"

"This devastatingly attractive individual needs a collar, and a leash," said Dean with a smile, ruffling Jimi's ears.

"I'm sure we can find something suitable," she replied, adding, "And something for the dog, too?" with the arch of an eyebrow.

Sam winced, and grasped at his corn chip bag for comfort.

Dean and Jimi were in their element as the adoring coterie herded them across the store to try on various collars. There were collars with studs, collars with rhinestones, braided collars, plain leather collars, inlaid collars, check chain collars, fur-saver collars, anti-pulling collars, _How many types of collar does a dog need?_ Sam wondered, as the Crazy Dog Women cooed over Jimi, _Is it like women and shoes? _

"Hey, Sam!" called Dean. When he had his little brother's full attention, he picked out a red collar with green rhinestones identical to the one Jimi was currently wearing, and held it to his own neck. "Look, we match!"

"That one really suits you, you know, it sets your eyes off," purred the redheaded Crazy Dog Woman.

Sam blanched, and started huffing into his corn chip bag. He could've sworn that both Dean and Jimi were grinning at him_. Man-whores_, he thought viciously, trying to think of anything except Dean and Jimi walking down the street in matching collars _mindbleach __la la la la la la la…_

While trying to look anywhere except at his brother (who had moved on to mugging furiously with a purple glitter collar), his eye fell on a pile of flyers on the counter. He grabbed one and read quickly.

**STATE DOG SHOW – NATIONAL QUALIFIER**

**CONFORMATION – OBEDIENCE – AGILITY**

The hamster in the wheel popped another handful of speed, washed it down with Red Bull, and started sprinting.

When they finally left the store with a new collar on Jimi (not too flashy, plain black with small silver studs) and a leash, some dog food and the red-head's phone number, Sam had calmed his breathing enough to hand the flyer to Dean and say,

"I think I know where they're planning their grand finale."

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

After dinner that evening, Dean checked the map. "It's right in the middle," he said, indicating the stadium that was the venue for the dog show, "It's right in the middle of the going-backwards-out-of-sequence search pattern."

"They've been gradually increasing the number of animals," muttered Sam, "This will be hundreds, no, thousands of dogs in the one place. Whatever they're gonna try, they're gonna try it then."

"You see?" said Dean, picking up his jacket, "Not only is freaking you out fun, sometimes it's also constructive." He grabbed his keys. "I'm meeting Kerryn…"

"Who?"

"Kerryn, red-headed Crazy Dog Woman, for drinks, and, um, companionship. You stay here and keep an eye on Sam for me, Jimi." Jimi cocked his head, and whuffed. _No problem, Boss_. "Don't wait up, you kids."

"Fine," humphed Sam, then as Dean smirked he gave his older brother a shot of Bitchface #2™ and quickly added, "If you are about to make some comment about wondering what else besides her job she does doggy style, I don't want to hear it."

"Spoilsport," grinned Dean, "Although I was going to add that maybe if I'm a bad boy, she'll spank me with a rolled-up newspaper…" he dodged out the door as Sam hurled a cushion and a parting call of "Jerk!" after him.

Sam turned back to the laptop. "Looks like it's you and me on the case, fella," he smiled, reaching out to pat Jimi on the head.

The smile faded from his face as he realized that Jimi was not wearing his collar…

_No no no no dear God no no mindbleach mindbleach_

"Rumph" went the dog sympathetically, resting his chin on Sam's knee as Sam began to breathe into the corn chip bag.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"You did what?" Dean paused in his latest gastroenterological experiment on Jimi, throwing peanut M&Ms to the dog – the enthusiastic research assistant was catching them mid-air.

"I said, I entered you in the dog show," replied Sam, who had duly noted down the results of Dean's experiments as they manifested and reported back to Bobby (onion rings = violets, French fries = neroli, doughnuts = tearose). "The Crazy Dog People may know all about dogs, but they don't have any Crazy Computer Geeks to teach them about server security. If something's going to happen there, we need to be at ground zero." There had been two more attempted attacks on pet shelters, as predicted by Dean's pattern extrapolation – they'd been interrupted by the Winchesters then stopped by Jimi as he performed his demon-tracking and relocation routine. The grateful rescued hosts had turned out to be another young lady with an extremely grabbable ass, from whom Dean had received a phone number, solicited with Jimi's help, and an older lady with not much ass at all but a real talent for baking, from whom Dean received two small cinnamon and apple pies and some triple-choc chip cookies, also solicited with Jimi's help (triple-choc chip cookies = frangipani).

"Can't we just go as spectators?" asked Dean, tossing an M&M into his own mouth. "Me and Jimi can wander around, pretend we're checking out the chicks. Well, we can wander around, and actually check out chicks while we look for demon activity."

"Dogs that aren't entered in the show aren't permitted on the grounds," answered Sam, "This is the only way we can get Jimi in." Dean nodded reluctantly – Jimi's talent for demon-tracking would be invaluable.

"You want me to impersonate a Crazy Dog Person? I don't know anything about impersonating Crazy Dog People!"

"Just ask yourself, 'What Would Kerryn Do?'," suggested Sam, a little more acidly than was really warranted.

"Probably a bad idea, bro, because what she'd do would probably get me arrested if I did it in such a public place…"

"Look, you've done impersonations from FBI to Catholic priest. We've impersonated teddy bear doctors, for crying out loud!" said Sam. "Crazy Dog Person should be a walk in the park."

"All right, All right," sighed Dean, tossing another M&M to Jimi, "What do we have to do?"

"He's entered in the Working Group, Open Class. His pedigree name is 'Winchester Ladies' Man'. He has to run around in circles, looking awesome. You have to run around with him. Looking awesome is optional for you."

"Looking awesome is unavoidable for me," smirked Dean, popping a handful of M&Ms.

"We'll have to teach him to stack – that's the show stance - but he's pretty bright, I don't think that'll be a problem, and he'll need a bath…"

"Yipe!" Jimi's head shot up, his big brown eyes wide in alarm. He jumped off Dean's bed where he'd been sitting and shot underneath it.

"Jimi? Jimi!" Dean got down on hands and knees, peering under the bed. Sam joined him.

A pair of anxious eyes peered out at them.

"What the hell just happened?" asked Sam, bewildered.

"You happened," grumbled Dean, "For someone who's supposed to be so smart… you never say the b-word out loud to a dog! And you heard Bobby - Jimi's a dog now! Hey, fella," he waved the bag of M&Ms enticingly, "Don't pay any attention to the Sasquatch here, he doesn't actually exist, you know. Come on, he didn't mean it."

The anxious eyes scooted further back under the bed, and whined.

"It's okay, Jimi," wheedled Dean, throwing an M&M towards the dog, "Come on out."

A practically prehensile tongue stretched just enough to nab the candy, but the rest of the attached dog didn't move.

"Looks like we'll just have to wait for him to get bored and come out," observed Dean.

"You could try the w-word," suggested Sam, "Isn't that supposed to have the opposite effect?"

"The w-word?" queried Dean.

"Yeah, you know, you say 'walk!' out loud, and…"

Jimi exploded from under the bed, barking enthusiastically, bouncing on the spot, his stumpy tail wagging furiously.

"Yeah, great, thanks for that, genius," grumped Dean, "I dunno, the benefits of higher education, what the hell did they teach you at Stanford? Jimi, knock it off!" he said as the dog danced around him. "Oh, I gotta walk him now, look at him. Come on, fella," he picked up Jimi's lead, "I think I saw a fried chicken place a few blocks over, let me introduce you to a new taste, and possibly a less appalling smell."

"Arf!" went Jimi, grinning doggily.

"I'll have some homework for you guys when you get back," said Sam, "You can watch some dog show class clips, see what you have to do."

"Unless we meet some hot chicks while we're standing around looking unavoidably awesome, right, J-Man?" grinned Dean. "We'll call if we get distracted."

Dean and Jimi left for their walk, leaving Sam pecking at the laptop. He sniffed, then took out his phone and texted Bobby.

_peanut M&Ms = honeysuckle/liliyofthevalley?_

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

It was quiet, thought Sam. Too quiet.

Dean had filled the tub, and called Jimi into the bathroom. That had been five minutes ago.

Sam had a sneaking suspicion that Dean had sabotaged himself by uttering the fatal incantation: _How hard can it be?_ He'd practically winced when Dean said that; the way Winchester luck ran, Universal Karma was bound to be having a slow day, and would be lounging around bored if either of them ever said that.

I used to give you a b-a-t-h all the time, and you were a real handful, Dean had said.

I wasn't 130-odd pounds of dog with a b-a-t-h aversion, Sam had pointed out.

I got the dog treats for bribes, and a collar to grab, which would've been handy for you, Dean had countered.

Can we not talk about humans wearing collars? Sam had pleaded, wondering where the empty corn chip bag had got to.

Jimi had trotted into the bathroom when called, and Dean had given Sam a thumbs up. Five minutes ago.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

And then it wasn't.

"Hey!" _splash splash_

"Yipe!" _splosh crash slosh_

"JIMI!" _thump slosh splash_

"Yaiiiiiipe!" _thump slosh BANG splash_

"Sonofabitch!" _slosh whump SPLASH_

The bathroom door opened. Dean stood there, completely soaked from head to foot.

"Um, you need a hand in there?" asked Sam uncertainly.

"Not at all," replied Dean calmly, walking casually over to his bed and shucking off his sopping clothes down to his boxers, "I have the situation entirely under control. Everything is proceeding according to plan."

"Er, okay, then," said Sam dubiously, "Just call if you need, you know, assistance."

Dean nodded, and with as much dignity as can be retained by a man in wet boxer shorts, returned to the bathroom.

It was quiet. Too quiet…

Sam tapped on the door.

"Dean? Everything okay?" he asked tentatively.

"Everything is fine, Sam," Dean called back, "Operation B-A-T-H is nearing completion."

Sam nodded to himself, then pushed the door open as curiosity got the better of him. "I can give you some help if you… "

"I told you, I have the situation in hand," said Dean calmly. He sat in the bath, Jimi sitting between his knees with a mournful expression, washing the dog with as much aplomb as any man can have when he's sitting in a bath full of bubbles in his shorts washing a dog who'd really rather be somewhere else.

"Er, right, so, er, I'll leave you guys to it. Try to leave me some hot water." Sam retreated to his bed, wondering what sort of nightmares would be provoked by the sight of his big brother serenely sharing a bath with a hellhound. Bobby would never believe it…

He wrapped his arm in a towel, picked up his phone, and approached the bathroom. In a single lightning movement he had the door open, thrust his arm through the gap, and

_click_

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!" the irate howl from the bath was quickly followed by a fast-moving slosh of soapy water. The towel took the brunt of the damage. It was a pity they didn't send Christmas cards, Sam thought to himself, grinning as he emailed the photo to Bobby, because it would be a great picture to put on them.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

"Deeeeeean!" came another irate howl from the bathroom some time later, "My shampoo is nearly empty! Tell me you didn't…"

"Well, there's a lot of him," countered Dean. "And I did my own hair while I was in there, it seemed like the efficient thing to do."

"YOU DID! YOU JERK!" An angry shaggy head appeared around the bathroom door. "I don't believe you used nearly a whole bottle of my shampoo on the dog!"

"He does smell nice," Dean pointed out, as Sam withdrew, muttering ominously, with a pointed parting shot of Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?).

Dean grabbed his keys and jacket. "I'll go get dinner," he called. "Come on, Jimi," he said quietly, "It's probably better that we're not here at all when he finds out we used all of…"

"DEEEEEEEEAN! Where the hell is my conditioner?"

* * *

I think the end might be in sight - huzzah! Next: off to the dog show. If you've never been to a dog show, I can only say it's a surreal experience. It's like the film 'Best In Show'. Only weirder.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

"What are you grinning at?" asked Dean, as Sam returned from the registration desk.

"Your number," replied his little brother, tying it onto Dean's sleeve. "Look, you got 666."

"There's an Iron Maiden joke in there, somewhere, but it's too early in the morning for me to find it," yawned Dean.

"Well, all entries have to register before 9 a.m.," Sam reminded him, "And that gives us extra time to look around, see if we can spot anything resembling demon activity. Maybe you two can practice your stand for examination a bit more."

"Hey, I'll have you know that we don't need any more practice at looking awesome, do we, Jimi?" The dog offered a whuff of agreement. "We can look awesome without trying. We look awesome in our sleep."

"Well, you do make a cute couple," smiled Sam. He had not yet told his big brother that he had further photographic evidence, this time with Jimi's head sharing the pillow.

"It's a sensible sleeping arrangement in the cold weather," said Dean defensively, "And he doesn't snore or toss and turn or grope me the way you would. Plus, now I've found the magic ingredient, he smells better than you, too." (Sam had texted Bobby the previous day: _fried chicken = cinnamon._)

They made a leisurely but careful circuit of the whole show, three pairs of eyes and one little black nose poised to detect any sign of demon activity.

"These people are certainly acting as though they're possessed," observed Dean, as they strolled past another ring. A collection of Crazy Dog People clustered alongside the ring; they were jumping up and down, honking honkers, squeaking squeaky toys, tooting on whistles and generally making a noise that suggested the anguished wailings of the Damned in a lower circle of Hell.

"They're the double handlers," Sam told him, "They're trying to get the pups' attention so they'll stand up and look alert."

"I take that back – they're not possessed, they're aliens," Dean changed his mind as a particularly large lady waved a green stuffed frog toy and made a noise reminiscent of a donkey having its tail pulled. "They're as bad as the moms on 'Toddlers and Tiaras'."

The spectators struck him as equally bizarre. Clusters of middle-aged men and women stood around each ring, closely inspecting their program booklets. Every one of them was wearing an expression like a cat's ass, as they muttered to each other.

"She's got a hide bringing that into the ring – it's got no pants at all…"

"Will you look at the flews on that, like the mudflaps on a Mack truck…"

"Of course it's so cow-hocked you could milk it…"

"Sam, we are in the presence of an outbreak of mass insanity," announced Dean.

"Well, look on the bright side," said Sam, "Anything a demon tries is going to stick out as looking freakishly normal."

Two complete circuits yielded no hint of demon activity, although they drew plenty of attention of their own; 'Winchester Ladies' Man' was a striking dog.

"Well, isn't he just magnificent," admired a Joan Rivers lookalike who was grooming a Rottweiler bitch with a fine-boned face. "What's your stud fee?" she asked Sam.

"You can have him for $500," he replied, nudging his brother forward, "And I'll throw in the dog for nothing."

She laughed hugely at that as Dean bristled in outrage. "Mmmmmm, maybe I'll go upend my piggy bank," she smirked. Sam smiled a contented 'gotcha' smile at Dean as they walked on.

"I'm insulted," muttered Dean, "I'm deeply insulted. I'm beyond insulted. If you're going to pimp me, I'm worth $500 per half-hour, and I'm not giving you a percentage."

The marshalling call for Open Dog, Working Group finally crackled across the P.A.

"That's your class, guys," said Sam, "Let's go."

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

"Your gait should be straight, energetic and economical," said Sam, giving Jimi a final pat, "And you keep your eyes on him if you have to stand for exam, okay? Don't try to shake hands. You, don't get between him and the judge," he switched his attention to Dean, "And do not, I repeat, DO NOT try to hit on her, is that clear?"

"Dude," Dean shuddered, "I don't think $500 per half-hour would be nearly enough…" he nodded in the direction of the judge, a severe-looking woman in her 60s.

"Frau Doktor Ursula Schneider is an internationally respected Conformation judge…" began Sam, consulting his booklet.

"…Who looks like a bulldog," finished Dean, "I just haven't decided which end of a bulldog."

"Just… try to smile politely, then." Sam gave Dean a final whack with the program.

There were dozens of dogs in the class. Run around looking awesome, stand looking awesome, run around looking awesome, stand looking awesome, run around looking awesome… Dean decided he was starting to get dizzy. Then Frau Doktor Bulldog consulted with her steward, who started calling numbers.

"623… 627… 635… 648… 649… 651… 655… 659… 666… 671…"

"What does that mean?" hissed Dean to Sam, who was standing on the other side of the ring tape. "Are we excused?"

"No!" Sam hissed back, "You've been called in! Go line up! And no freaking the opposition!"

Polite applause and lots of cat's ass faces greeted the final round of the judging.

Dean found himself inexplicably unhappy with the way Frau Doktor Dogsass ran her hands over Jimi. _She's enjoying that way too much_, he decided, trying not to frown. The daft old bat couldn't even make her mind up: she sent Jimi and a Malamute out to run around again, just so she could call them back and fondle them, _paw_ at them again, old perv…

He was so busy disliking her that he nearly didn't hear their number being called.

"In first place, number 666, Winchester Ladies' Man."

"Fuck me, Jimi," he said quietly to the dog, "You've won…"

Sam was less restrained. "You've won, guys, you've won!" he yelled. "Don't just stand there, do your lap!"

Dean smiled uncertainly as he took Jimi for another lap of the ring, the dog grinning and dancing at the end of his lead, while the judge's translator read: "This dog is of a very good type, strong in build, expressive, dry and firm. Straight back, good lay of croup, with good angulation and chest proportions. Shows a fleet, economical ground-covering gait, is firm in character…"

"Is she doing a spell?" muttered Dean as they passed Sam.

"I think she's just describing how awesome Jimi is," grinned Sam.

Dean even managed a sincere smile and polite handshake when Frau Doktor Roadkillface presented Jimi with his sash. She also pulled a fairly terrifying expression (which, the Winchesters decided later, was probably a smile, and no, Dean, I don't think she's a vampire, even with teeth that scary) as Jimi, in the end, also insisted on shaking hands with her. There was an audible 'Awwwww' from the spectators and a final ripple of applause.

"That was totally brown-nosing the judge," Sam said to him on the way back to their motel, after a final circuit of the show had failed to turn up any hint of demonic doings.

"Charming the judge, he was charming the judge," corrected Dean. "Nothing happened, though – whatever they're planning, it has to be tomorrow. We have to find a way to sneak him back in."

"We don't need to," Sam pointed out, "Thanks to Jimi and his awesomeness, we have a legitimate excuse to have him there tomorrow as well, for the Best In Show round."

"Almost makes it worth him being groped by Frau Doktor Probablynotavampire, then." He paused thoughtfully. "This calls for a celebration. More fried chicken, Your Awesomeness?" he asked the mirror.

"Ruff," said Jimi.

"And we gotta take a picture of him with his sash, send it to Bobby," he added.

"Fine," said Sam, "I'll just wait until you two are cuddled up in bed tonight, with Jimi wearing nothing but his sash, you kinky bastard…"

"You are disgusting, Samantha." Dean glowered. "He keeps me warm. He's better than an electric blanket."

"It's probably the one genre that the fangirls haven't explored in their fanfics," Sam continued, "Yet. Dean/dog. I'm sure that if I put the idea out there in cyberspace, we could have some seriously-disturbing-yet-possibly-inexplicably-erotic bedtime reading by the end of next week…"

"Sam…"

"I mean, if incest doesn't bother them, bestiality is bound to have a fan base."

"Sam…"

"Would you be more comfortable with Dean/Rumsfeld? After all, she is female. Or maybe you and Jimi could get her involved for a really interesting threesome…"

"SAM!" yelped Dean. "If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I am going to improvise a short piece of theatre of the genre Sam/Dean's boot. My boot will be pitching and you, you long-haired freak, will be catching." He glowered. "And if you ever, EVER even THINK about releasing that photo of me and Jimi into the wild, I will personally roll you in chicken salt, and throw you to the hellhound."

* * *

Damn, there's another chapter or two to go, and I wanted this finished by Christmas... never mind, we shall press on! The bit about the double handlers, and the spectators, are relayed directly from a dog show I went to (spectators' comments are repeated verbatim) - I was helping out in the canteen. I had to go and ask one of the obedience people what it means when a dog has no pants. (For the record, 'pants' is show talk for the fluffy breeches down the back of a German Shepherd's hind legs, so it can sit comfortably on wet ground or snow.) Crazy Dog People really are that crazy. Merry Christmas, everybody, try not to eat too many mince pies!


	13. Chapter 13

Last Chapter

"What is it, fella?" asked Dean, ruffling Jimi's ears. The dog seemed uneasy, alternately growling and whining.

"I wonder if he's picking up on something?" asked Sam. "Maybe he's scenting something, but can't pinpoint it."

"Maybe we should split up," suggested Dean. They'd already done a full circuit of the show, but there were even more dogs there for the second day, and more were still arriving. "Cover more ground more closely. You got the knife?"

"I got the knife, what about you?"

"I got Jimi," replied Dean smugly, reaching down to pat the dog on the head. "Okay, you take that side, and call if you see anything." They split up, Jimi still scenting the air uneasily.

Sam made an apparently random but systematic search grid, half his mind monitoring his nose for the smell of sulphur, the rest of it watching the hamster run in the wheel. The pet shelter attacks they'd thwarted had been where large numbers of dogs had been. Pet shelters. Pet shelters full of dogs. In the middle of pet shelters full of dogs. In the middle of lots of dogs…

He was so busy ruminating that he almost didn't notice when he wandered into a crowd of people clustered around one ring, laughing and cheering. A group of mushers were putting on a demonstration, towing wheeled carts. One musher abandoned his cart and skied along on his feet behind his team, mugging furiously to the crowd.

"Some people take mushing competition very seriously indeed," said the M.C., as the mugging skiing musher whizzed past again, "But it's not just for Malamutes and Huskies! Nearly any fit dog can do it just for fun!" As he said this, a team of German Shepherds ran into the ring, tongues lolling with delight, joining in the race, chasing after the skiing musher, who set up a melodramatic shriek at being pursued.

That amused the crowd, but they howled with laughter when a team of Shih-tzus, following a Pomeranian lead dog, ran into the ring, towing a girl on a tiny cart.

"They're not actually Shih-tzus, ladies and gentlemen," intoned the M.C. "They are in fact bonsai Huskies, imported from Japan…" the crowd laughed as the little dogs, yapping excitedly, chased furiously after the German Shepherds chasing after the Malamutes and their now Yodelling-In-Fake-Terror skiing musher. "But really, any dog can learn to mush, big or small, nearly any breed – your best friend will amaze you, you harness up enough of them and they can move anything…"

Sam blinked as the hamster went for broke, trying to break the 100 m Olympic record.

_Harness up enough of them and they can move anything…_

_In the middle of lots of dogs…_

He pulled out his phone and called Dean.

"Meet me at the Main Ring," he said quickly, "I know what's going to happen!"

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

Dean shut his phone and called up Jimi. "C'mon, fella, I think Sam's… oh, that's never good," he finished, watching as the overhead lighting dipped and flared a couple of times, with some lights blowing out.

He met Sam by the main arena, where his brother started without preamble.

"They're using the dogs to get to Heaven," he said quickly, "All dogs go to Heaven, right, and the demons are somehow harnessing them up, and, and, _mushing_ to Heaven with them, using the dogs' souls to get in, the earlier attacks must've been experiments to see how many were needed…"

He was cut off by Jimi growling, and a single pair of hands applauding.

"Oh, I do like it when Hunters are astute," said the little girl musher, her eyes flashing black. "The first tries were scouts, range-finders, but you've got the basic idea right." A group of the mushing audience were behind her, grinning, the odd pair of black eyes flashing.

"They know what you're up to, Upstairs," said Dean, backing up with Sam.

"But they don't know how," replied the Musher-Girl demon. "The scouts were proof of principle – when we arrive en masse, they won't be able to deal. We'll throw open the Gates from the inside."

"A siege-break," said Sam. She laughed and clapped her hands.

"Oh, and a student of history, too! I like you!" she trilled. "I like you so much, I'm going to kill the other one first!"

"Like hell you are," growled Dean, "Jimi, send this little bitch to bed with no supper."

Jimi growled and stalked forwards, hackles up. Musher-Girl sighed.

"And here I thought you were smart," she said in a disappointed voice, "Do you really think a dog is any use against me?"

"An ordinary dog, no," Dean smiled grimly as Jimi's eyes turned the glowing red of angry embers and boning knife teeth extruded, "But this guy? He won his class, _and_ he's awesome!" Musher-Girl's eyes widened in fright.

"DO IT!" she shrieked, diving behind one of the others.

The lights overhead fritzed and finally gave out, as she began to chant in the guttural language they'd heard used at the pet shelters. The demons came at them, while she followed sheltering behind her followers. Jimi knocked down the nearest one, grabbing the trail of smoke as it tried to escape, winking out of sight in a flash of red, then reappearing to chase down another.

"Move!" yelled Dean, grabbing Sam and heading for the administration area. The demons came after them, Jimi still flashing in and out, dragging them back to Hell one at a time. They locked themselves in the registration office.

"This won't hold them long," growled Dean, fumbling with a salt canister.

"Jimi?" asked Sam.

"Still at it," said Dean, glancing out the window, "But there's too many of them."

"We have to get to that girl demon," said Sam urgently, "She's doing the killing spell…"

"I know, but if we go out there now, we're dead meat!" Dean snapped back, as they braced against the door while the first demons hammered on it. "You have the knife, all I have is a gun, some salt, some holy water." He put his hand in his pocket to grab the flask.

His hand closed on the doily.

"Sam, open the door," he said quietly, putting it on his head.

Sam looked at him as if he'd grown antlers. "What? _What?_ Are you _nuts_? They'll tear you to pieces! You… oh, no, no, _no_, I see what you're thinking, and…"

"Just do it!" he barked. Sam swore, and did what he was told.

Dean darted out the door behind a spreading spray of holy water and salt. The possessed crowd fell back briefly.

"Whelps of the Pit, I call you to the aid of your brother!" he called desperately, "Whelps of the Pit, I call you to the aid of your brother!" The demons hesitated, confused. "Whelps of the Pit, for fuck's sake, get your scaly asses here and help Jimi drag this lot back Downstairs!"

At first he thought it hadn't worked. Then, there was a deep rumbling, felt through the ground rather than heard.

A demon in the middle of the milling group screamed, and its human host slumped to the ground.

In the dim light, hulking grotesque shapes with red eyes and knife-teeth flashed in and out of existence, grabbing and shaking at the columns of smoke as they desperately tried to flee, snarling and dragging them back to Hell. Amongst them, a smaller, black shape with the same red eyes returned and disappeared, taking yet another demon back where it belonged.

"Where did she go?" asked Sam, looking through the prone hosts as the last meatsuit fell to the ground, "Where's the ringleader?"

"I didn't see her," replied Dean, scanning the area, "When Jimi gets back, we'll get him to track her…"

Sam turned to see the Musher-Girl demon behind Dean, wearing a murderous scowl and wielding a long-bladed knife.

"Dean!" he screamed a warning, knowing as he did so that it was too late. Dean turned to see the knife flash down…

He was knocked aside by a snarling, bristling, and above all extremely _angry_ Jimi. When the knife sank into his side, he didn't even slow down.

Musher-Girl's expression went from rage to surprise to terror as Jimi knocked her down, and slavered over her. She let out one last cry of terror, and fled her host. Jimi grabbed the demon, and wrestled with the writhing column of smoke. He fell to the ground, but didn't let go, growling determinedly.

"Jimi's hurt! She got Jimi!" shouted Dean, "He can't drag her Downstairs!"

Sam leaped at the twisting writhing column and slashed the demon-killing knife into it. There was a crackling sound, a burst of inhuman shrieking, a flash of light, and it was gone.

"Dean? Dean? Are you okay?" Sam called, moving to where his brother knelt by Jimi.

"I'm fine," answered Dean, "Jimi's not." He indicated the knife that had sunk into Jimi's side – the blade had gone in to the hilt. Jimi was panting, rapid and shallow, and the wound bled copiously, bright red frothy blood.

"Dean…" Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean knelt and caressed Jimi's head.

"It's hit a lung," said Dean woodenly, as Jimi tried to lift his head. "He's bleeding out." Jimi's tongue snaked out to lick Dean's hand, and he whined a little.

Dean took the large mournful head in his lap. "It's okay, Jimi," he reassured the dog, "You did good. You did better than good. You were awesome." He hesitated; there didn't seem to be anything else he could say. "You've done your job, fella, you finished your Hunt." The big brown Sammy eyes turned on him. "Don't stay here if it hurts, Jimi, you go… you go wherever you're meant to be. Go on," he finished, "Good dog. Good boy. Go home, now."

Jimi's eyes glowed fiercely red, and he let out a gurgling "Whuff", and licked Dean's hand again. Then he was still.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

They took Jimi back to the yard, where Bobby told them he'd have a pyre ready. "He Hunted with you," the old Hunter had growled, "And he'll get a proper send-off." Dean draped the Open Class sash over the dog, gave him a final pat goodbye, and flicked his lighter. Rumsfeld sat with them, watching the pyre burn.

Sam's face was a picture of misery. "I'm going to miss him," he said sadly, "I really liked having him around. I don't care that he was a hellhound, he was a good dog."

"Yeah," agreed Dean, lost in his own thoughts, "He turned out to be a great Hunter."

"You could try summoning him again," suggested Sam hopefully, but Dean shook his head.

"Of all people, shouldn't we know that what's dead should stay dead?" he asked emphatically. "He should never have been summoned in the first place. Anyway, there's no guarantee we'd get Jimi back again. My Jimi. Our Jimi. No," he repeated, "He's better off where he is. Back in Hell. He won't be cold there. He can be happy."

There was a flapping sound, and Castiel stood behind them. Dean was too lost in watching the embers burn down even to complain about having his personal space invaded.

"My thanks to you for finding the source of the demon intrusions and stopping them," he said. "It was most unexpected. I doubt we would have been able to deduce what they were doing before they succeeded. An extremely simple yet effective strategy."

"All dogs go to Heaven," shrugged Sam, "I guess sooner or later one of them had to figure out that loophole."

"We have now closed the, as you call it, 'loophole' that enabled demons to enter by riding along with the souls of dogs," said Castiel, looking at the pyre. "I am sorry about your dog, Dean; according to his file, he was becoming quite fond of you."

"Yeah, I know I was getting fond of him," smiled Sam, "Dad never would let us have a dog when we were kids."

"His... file?" queried Dean.

"For the Heavenly archive," explained Castiel, "His arrival did cause a certain amount of… consternation - the Guardian in charge of pets' souls didn't seem to know which form to fill in, so…"

Dean snapped out of his reverie. "You mean, Jimi went to _Heaven_?"

Castiel cocked his head at him. "Of course. All dogs go to Heaven. Especially good dogs. Jimi was a good dog. In fact, according to his file, he was 'awesome'."

Dean broke into a huge grin. "You see, Sam?" he said, "How could we drag him away from that?"

Sam was still trying to get his head around the idea of some angel somewhere suffering an administrative meltdown because a hellhound in a Rottweiler suit had been unexpectedly dropped into the In tray. "Please convey our apologies to the Guardian," he said to the angel.

"I'm sure that the record-keeping details will be dealt with," Castiel assured him, turning to leave. "Oh, Dean, Danael in Reception asked me to request that you refrain from excessive use of crude language in your prayers. She said that if you pray again with the a-word, the s-word, the f-word or the d-word, she will 'shred' your message." He looked confused. "I do not know exactly what that means, but the tone of voice she used suggested that it would be painful, and is best avoided."

A small smile played across Dean's face. "Okay, I'll try to keep myself nice next time I send a p-mail." He turned back to watch the red embers glow and waver.

"Do you think… we might get a dog, sometime?" asked Sam in a voice that made Dean think of him as a seven-year-old again. "Bobby says some Hunters use dogs. He says he knows a guy who has a Chihuahua that takes down werewolves…"

"What? How does a Chihuahua take down a werewolf?" Dean's face was a picture of disbelief. "Get stuck in its throat and choke it?"

"Apparently, it lets itself be swallowed, then it chews its way out from the inside."

Dean thought about that. "Well, Chihuahuas are practically demons to start with," he conceded.

"He could be useful, like Jimi, we could teach him to Hunt," Sam was practically wheedling.

"No dog will ever be like Jimi," mused Dean. He saw the disappointment on Sam's face, and relented. "Tell you what, if the right dog ever comes along, we'll consider it, okay?" He turned back to the fire, and told himself that what he saw was just coals, not a pair of grinning red eyes. "But no dog will ever be like Jimi."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

"Balls," said Bobby, three days later, lowering the gun and surveying the corpse of the witch on his doorstep with pained resignation. "That's the third one in as many days. This is getting tedious."

"I always thought that Amway reps were a bit creepy, but this…" commented Dean.

"Well, I guess that posing as an apple seller isn't really a viable option in the 21st century," suggested Sam, picking up the witch's sample case, "Bobby, do you need any more detergent? Oh, hey, shampoo and conditioner."

"What I need is for you two idjits to scrape that bitch off my porch, and plant her salted and burned ass somewhere out of the way," replied Bobby.

"It's the third one!" complained Dean, "Can't we just, I dunno, stuff her in a freezer or something, you know, until we've got enough to do a batch job?" Bobby's death-ray glare suggested that he did not entertain this idea as viable, so with much theatrical groaning, the Winchesters set to the disposal of yet another unwanted visitor.

"What the hell's going on?" wondered Sam out loud when they'd finished up.

"Maybe Bobby needs to fix the privacy settings on his FaceSpace account; he's being stalked," theorized Dean, "Maybe he posted inappropriate pictures of himself on the net, and…"

Before Dean could develop his theory on why witches kept turning up at Bobby's yard, there was a familiar _flap-flap_, and Castiel was standing uncomfortably close to Dean.

"Hey! Two words for you, Cas. 'Personal' and 'Space'. I'm going to sit on you, and tattoo them across your knuckles," griped Dean.

"My apologies, Dean," said Castiel seriously, "But I can answer your question about the sudden apparent interest that witches are taking in Bobby. There is no need to be concerned for his privacy, there are no explicit photos of him in cyberspace…"

"That's a relief," breathed Sam.

"…Although he has had a certain number of photos sent to him depicting women in various states of undress, usually from the female friend who send him baked goods, however I would describe them as 'tasteful' rather than 'explicit'…"

"Cas! Too much information!" Sam yelped.

"No problem, bro, we'll tattoo 'TMI' on his forehead while we're at it," said Dean, wincing.

"It is not Bobby that is attracting them," continued Castiel, "It is the presence of a powerful occult artefact in the yard."

"What? What artefact?" asked Dean.

"The kappa-reidh doily," replied the angel. "It must be destroyed at once." He saw the look of disappointment of Dean's face. "I am sorry, Dean," he said, "I understand that it has become a… keepsake for you. But its continued existence is an unacceptable risk."

"It's okay, I'll go get it," said Dean, "Will the ol' salt-and-burn routine do it?"

"That will suffice," confirmed Castiel.

Dean was back a few minutes later with the doily.

"I'll finish up here, Sam, you go tell Bobby we've taken care of Madam Amway #3," he said. Sam caught the look on his brother's face, and headed inside.

Dean tossed the doily into a metal bucket, dousing it liberally with salt and fuel. "Why has this doily suddenly become the hottest item on occult e-Bay, anyway?" he asked Castiel.

The angel gave him an unexpected look of compassion. "It is a doily that can summon hellhounds; three days ago, it was soaked in tears shed by a Righteous Man for one of those hounds," he explained. "To those who look for such things, it blazes with power, calls out. Its existence is now too dangerous."

Dean nodded, and dropped the match. He didn't notice when Castiel slipped away; he was too busy watching the doily burn. It burned with a cheerful warm red glow, the color of banked coals, and gave off a distinct smell of lavender.

**... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo ….. ... oOoOo …..**

Damariel loved her assignment. She might be one of the lowest ranked angels in the Host, but she thought that her job had to be the best in all of Creation. She smiled fondly out over her charges. Beloved creations of Her Father, beloved by Her Father's children. Beloved by her, too, if she was honest, every single one of them.

'The Rainbow Bridge', some humans called it. There wasn't any actual rainbow, or bridge for that matter, but there was an ever-changing horde of deceased animals awaiting their humans. It never failed to make her smile, to see the innocent souls arrive into her care – it was especially wonderful to see the elderly and infirm ones shake off their age and frailty, becoming again the young, active animals that they'd been in their own minds even as their mortal bodies had grown old and worn out. Oh, and the happy faces when their humans came to fetch them, the excited barking, the satisfied purring, it was all music to her ears. She wouldn't give it up for an Archangel's position.

And yet… she sighed as she moved to disengage one of the recent arrivals from his latest venture.

"Jimi!" she called cheerfully, "What did we say about chasing Hecate and Thaddea and Fred and Meimei?" The large dog paused where he had chased four cats up a tree – quite an achievement, since as far as Damariel knew, there had never been any trees here, as such, until Jimi arrived – and offered her a doggy grin as he answered to his name, sitting in front of her and offering a paw.

She couldn't find it in her heart to be annoyed at him – she'd checked his file, and discovered that he'd had hardly any time at all to be a dog before he'd died – but he was… she sought for a tactful way to put it… a high maintenance soul.

Immediately upon arrival, he had 'marked' the post of one of the Pearly Gates, starting a small fire. St Peter had certainly looked prepared to explode… After that, he'd dug a substantial hole in the Firmament, a feat in itself, since the stuff was supposed to be indestructible.

She'd tried to distract him with play, during which she had ended up with grubby paw marks on her robe. Then he'd gone quiet for a few minutes, and she had caught him chewing on her harp, and wasn't that going to take some serious polishing to buff out… Still, at least there hadn't been any repeat of the episode when he'd chased down and eaten Mr Twitchy the rabbit – what a metaphysically educational situation that had been. He was so full of energy, and mischief, and simple happiness, she'd had to call in some expert help…

With relief, she realised that the cavalry had arrived, when she spotted the old man in a simple monk's habit making his way towards her.

"Thank you so much, Fra Francis," she greeted him warmly. The old man smiled back at her.

"Always delighted to help, dear Damariel. So, where is this dreadful monster who is driving you to distraction?" he grinned at her mischievously.

"This is Jimi," she said, indicating the large dog sitting at her feet. Jimi woofed, and offered Fra Francis his paw. The old man smiled down at him.

"So, tell me, Jimi," he began, "Did you learn to play 'fetch' in your short but thoroughly remarkable mortal life? No? We must remedy this. It is a fine game! Watch!" He reached up, and took the halo from above his head, waggling it at Jimi, who watched it intently. "That's it! So, I throw it, and you go get it! Now… you are watching?... go… FETCH!" He frisbeed his halo away into the distance, and Jimi tore off after it, face grinning and tongue lolling. "You go about your duties," he said, "I will keep Jimi here occupied for a while. We will have a wonderful time."

Thank you, Fra Francis," she said again, marvelling at the old man. His help with some of her more boisterous charges was invaluable. He was completely unflappable, and never tired of their company. He had the patience of a… well, he would, wouldn't he?

She turned back to Jimi's file, where she'd been reviewing the scant but surprising information on his background. She noticed that his human was in fact a Hunter, currently aged in his thirties, no previous pets. They hadn't had much time to form a bond, but according to the analysts, it had run deep. The analysts gave him a 98% Retrieval Priority rating: coming to fetch Jimi would be pretty much the first thing he did when he arrived himself. She brightened up a little at that – Hunters tended to die younger rather than older. Maybe she wouldn't have to deal with Jimi for too much longer anyway, you never know, she might get lucky. Cheered up somewhat, she returned to her other charges.


	15. Epilogue

Can We Keep Him? - Epilogue

"Was breakfast to Madam's liking?" asked Bobby, smiling at Rumsfeld as she offered him a tired but happy 'whuff'. He picked up the empty bowl, and turned his attention to the three squirming bundles sharing her whelping box. At almost three weeks, their eyes were open, and they were becoming aware of a world beyond their mother.

Janis, Joni, and… well, it had to be Jimi, didn't it? Jimi Junior. Already, at this age, he was showing signs of being big.

One tiny bundle lifted its nose, yipped, and crawled towards him, nudging under his hand, demanding his attention. She'd been doing that since she was just a few days old, when Bobby had carefully checked the three tiny pups under Rumsfeld's watchful gaze. Janis was going to be a daddy's girl, he grinned to himself. He would end up keeping her. She'd be good company for her mother.

Joni was the explorer, and had been trying for the past few days to make it out of the whelping box under her own steam. Unfortunately for her, her tiny, wobbly legs didn't have the co-ordination yet. She managed to get her front feet over the rim, but fell back, squealing, more in indignation than hurt. She would never be content to be a yard watchdog; half a dozen Hunters Bobby knew would kill for a chance to train a dog like her to the Hunt.

At the sound of her squealing, her brother disengaged himself from his mother's washing - he didn't like being bathed much, either - and made his way over to his litter-sister, where he sniffed and licked at her until she quieted. He did that a lot; Janis would yip insistently for Bobby's withdrawn attention, Joni would give herself another fright, and Jimi would be there, whuffing and offering play and company to distract and soothe. You get that from your daddy, thought Bobby, and we know where he got it from…

He picked up the pups one at a time. Their eyes were open now: Janis gazed adoringly at him, Joni stared fearlessly at him, and Jimi, well… Bobby had never seen such a contained, _patient_ look on a dog's face, especially so young.

"Why do I get the feeling you're waiting for something. Or someone," Bobby asked him. The pup suddenly broke into an adorable happy puppy grin, and a crackle of red highlights flickered briefly in his eyes then was gone.

He put the pup down as his phone rang, ignoring Janis's outraged squalling for more Bobby-cuddles.

"Dean," he answered, smiling hugely, "What you boys been up to these last months? Uh-huh… uh-huh… okay, I'll see you soon. Actually, your timing is pretty good. I got something here I want to show you. No, no, nothing to worry about, but I think you'll find it interesting. Yeah. You too, idjit." He shut the phone, and wondered how best to spring the news of Jimi's paternity on the Winchesters.

Whatever he did, he planned to have a camera at the ready – he wanted to preserve Dean's expression for posterity. And Little Jimi's, too, for that matter.

He had a feeling that they were both going to grin until their faces looked fit to fall off.

**THE END**

* * *

Phew, finally made it! I had NFI that this story would end up so LONG. Well done to anyone who's made it this far - award yourself lots of chocolate-coated internets! To all those who offered encouraging reviews, thank you for taking the time to comment - I'm glad you had a bit of a giggle. I may yet take to the keyboard again sometime, if the Chocolate Powered Inspiration Fairy strikes again. Will the Winchesters take Jimi Jr on the road when he's a bit older? That might be fun: I just can't decide which brother would be the Stern Parent and which would be the Soft Touch. Maybe they'd both feed him fried chicken under the table... I hope everybody had a great Christmas, and you got lots of good presents and ate far too much Sometimes food!


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